Invisible Minority
by Kelmin
Summary: COMPLETE! What might it be like to be a member of an invisible—and highly discriminated against—minority, in a conservative workplace? Direct sequel to "Stoker Speaks Out." It's m/m slash, but I keep it out of the bedroom. Don't like slash? Don't read it.
1. Cookouts and Campfires

Author's Note: This story started from a dare/challenge to whimsically pair two characters, but turned into an exploration of what it would be like to be a member of an invisible—and highly discriminated against—minority, in a highly conservative workplace. It's a direct sequel to "Stoker Speaks Out," which you will need to have read first for this story to make sense. It's a little bit of a love story, but also a very serious treatment of serious topics—discrimination and hate crimes. There's no sex in the story (though it's certainly implied), but there is love between people of the same sex. If that's not something you want to read, stop here.

Still reading? Great! Other things of note: there's some violence, which I will warn about at the top of that chapter. The ending is not outlandishly, unrealistically happy, but nor is it tragic. The story originally appeared on another site, in a different form, but I've altered it (and thus its rating) substantially to make it appropriate for this site's rating scheme. So if you read Kelmin elsewhere, this story will be familiar to you. As always, I love to hear what readers think.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. When real people, agencies, or places appear in the story, they are used fictionally. When actors and characters share a name, all references in the story are to the fictional character, not the actor.

**Invisible Minority**

**Chapter 1: Cookouts and Campfires **

Roy was at the grill, flipping some burgers, when he heard another vehicle pull up in the gravel drive. He recognized the VW Rabbit that belonged to Mike Stoker's girlfriend, Serena.

"Hey, guys! Mike and Serena are here!" he called to the rest of the gang. Everyone from A-shift was there – Cap and Mrs. Stanley, Marco and his girlfriend Lila, and Chet and Johnny, the two steadfast singles of the group. They hadn't been sure whether Mike was going to make it to the cookout or not, since he and Serena had been going to a play that her kindergarten class was putting on earlier that afternoon.

"Hey, Mike!" called Roy. "Come on back! Hi, Serena, glad you guys could make it."

Serena opened the gate for Mike. His left arm was still in a sling to protect the shoulder he'd dislocated a few weeks before, falling down a hill during a brush fire. Serena headed immediately for the group of women, grabbing a beer from the cooler on her way.

"How are the shoulder and the hand coming along?" Roy asked Stoker.

"Not too bad – shoulder's still plenty sore, but I'm getting some range of motion back. The hand isn't too bad unless it gets cold. Then it feels like those cactus spines are still in there."

Roy winced in sympathy. "The good news about it being fall is that the brush fire season is tapering off, but the bad news for you is that there'll actually be some cool nights now."

Mike gave a careful one-shouldered shrug. "I can deal. Never been a fan of the heat anyhow."

Mike and Roy were both wondering whether to bring up their last in-depth discussion, which had taken place in the back of an ambulance on the way to Rampart. To Roy's surprise, the usually-laconic Mike spoke up. Sort of.

"Um, thanks for your understanding, about, you know."

Roy smiled back. "No problem."

Mike added, cautiously looking around to make sure he wasn't overheard, "Serena and I cover for each other. I go to school things with her, and she comes to fire station stuff with me. Makes things easier. We're pals."

Roy was relieved to hear Mike's explanation. He had been wondering whether the situation was as Mike had just described, or whether the "relationship" was a one-way cover. He didn't think Mike was the kind of guy who'd use someone like that, though.

"Good. Thanks for telling me."

The four other guys wandered over to the grill.

"Hey, Stoker! How's it goin'?" asked Chet, who already had a couple of beers in him. "Giving Roy a hand here at the grill?"

"Ha, ha," replied Mike.

"Seriously, though, us guys were just talkin' about maybe camping out for a coupla days next time we have a four day break. That's comin' up soon, right, Cap?"

"Yep – Tuesday through Friday, starting in just over two weeks," said Captain Stanley. "And not a second too soon."

"Well, I'm game," said Johnny, "as long as we can go somewhere where there's actually fish to catch. You up for it, Mike?"

Truth be told, Mike was going out of his mind with boredom. His medical leave was supposed to be at least six weeks, and he was only halfway done and wanted to drown himself. But camping, with a recently dislocated shoulder? "Well, I dunno if I can sleep on the ground with this shoulder, guys," he said dejectedly.

Chet saved the day. "No problemo, man; I'll bring my van, and you can have the bunk. And some other sorry fool who can take your snoring can have the other one."

Mike considered this arrangement. "All right. Been really bored. Sounds good. Thanks, guys."

The ladies—Mrs. Cap, Joanne, Lila, and Serena—were chatting on the other side of the yard. They looked over at the men briefly, and then all laughed at the same time, making the men wonder what had just been discussed.

"But here's the deal," continued Chet. "No girls. No wives, either. Just us guys. I mean, it'd be fair if we _all_ had someone to bring, but poor Gage doesn't have a chance—" Johnny promptly made a childish face at Chet— "so the kindest thing is for it just to be us A-shift guys and that's it.

"And on that topic," Chet continued, "Stoker, when're ya gonna make an honest woman out of poor Serena? I mean, you guys've been together the whole time we've all worked at 51s. Aren't there any sounds of wedding bells in the future there?"

"Ah, mind your business, Chet," Johnny defended Mike, who was blushing a deep shade of pink. "Least he's gettin' some, unlike _certain_ people I could mention. Besides, lotsa people don't get married these days."

Roy studiously flipped some burgers and rolled some dogs on the grill.

"Yeah, kids these days," muttered Cap. "Okay, you imbeciles, I'll go along—but only if Roy goes too. Darned if I'm gonna be the only old married guy out there with all you hooligans. Roy?"

"Sure. I'll get Joanne to invite her mother down for the week," agreed Roy.

"I'm in too—Lila's at work during the week anyhow," said Marco.

"Far out!" said Johnny. "Brush fire season'll be over, so we could even have a campfire."

~!~!~!~

By early afternoon on a bright Tuesday in early October, they were finally on the road. Chet and Marco rode in Chet's VW pop-up camping van, along with all the gear and supplies. The other four loaded into Cap's new Oldsmobile Delta 88, the most reliable of the other vehicles the group had amongst them. Johnny called shotgun, and the other guys let him take that seat, since they knew he was prone to motion sickness.

The two vehicles arrived at the group's campsite, and the occupants got out and stretched their legs.

"Hey, Gage, ya make it all the way without having to puke this time?" Chet jibed.

"Yeah, I was savin' it up just for you, Kelly," Johnny shot back. "I'm sure you'll come up with somethin' today that will make me hurl."

"All right, children," said Roy, "we better get the tents pitched before it starts getting dark."

"Okay, Dad," said Marco. "But who's gonna bunk with the lumberjack, here?"

"Not me," said Cap. "I'm too old to be up all night anymore. Plus, I've got a good three inches of height on any of you munchkins. My feet would dangle for sure."

"Well, I vote for Gage to take the damage," said Chet. "He's so fidgety that nobody will get any sleep with him in a tent anyhow."

"I second that," said Cap. "Gage, you're like an electric egg beater without an off switch."

Roy caught a look on Mike's face that worried him. "C'mon, guys; how is it fair to decide by jury? We oughta draw straws or something, right, Johnny?"

Johnny shrugged. "I don't care; I always sleep with earplugs when I'm camping anyhow. See?" He reached into his duffel bag, and held up a cylinder of six foam earplugs – four purple and two orange.

"Nah," said Roy, "we still oughta draw lots. Here, Johnny, dump `em out – four purples and an orange." He held a mug out to Johnny, who unwrapped the package and dumped the earplugs into the mug. "Orange bunks with Stoker." He held the mug out towards Hank. "Rank has its privileges: you first, Cap."

Surprisingly, Cap agreed to participate. He closed his eyes and grabbed. "Whew, purple. You next, Phantom."

Chet closed his eyes and reached into the mug. "Hah! Purple! All right, Gage, do your worst."

Johnny dipped into the mug, and promptly pulled out the orange earplug. Everyone jeered at him. "Like I said, I don't really care—unless I don't get those earplugs back. Now gimme," he demanded, and placed the earplugs back in their tube.

Roy looked apologetically at Stoker, shrugging his shoulders as if to say "Sorry, pal, I tried."

Stoker disappeared to the van to see what supplies he could carry to the site one-handed. Roy followed him, leaving the rest of the guys by the fire pit.

"Hey, Mike, you all right with this?"

Mike sighed. "Well, I'll manage. Don't see how I can get out of it." He half dreaded, half looked forward to sharing quarters with the object of a good number of his desires. "Thanks for trying to rescue me, though—again."

~!~!~!~

After a delicious Lopez-special dinner of chicken cooked over the wood fire, along with corn roasted in the coals right in its husks, everyone was ready to sack out. Chet and Marco headed for their tent, and Cap and Roy for theirs. Johnny had been assigned to put out the fire and make sure everything tempting was out of reach of the bears for the night. Mike did his best to help out, but was annoyed by his weak shoulder and his clumsy, not-quite-healed punctured hand.

"Can't wait to go fishing tomorrow," Johnny said as he stirred another can of water into the still-smoldering embers of the fire. "I bet we find a good place somewhere along this stream."

"Probably," Mike said. "Though I doubt I'm gonna be much good at it this time around. One handed and all."

"Gettin' pretty frustrating, ain't it," Johnny commented.

"You bet. My house is a mess, my yard is a disaster, and I'm sick of sandwiches and cereal, which is about all I can manage. I'm starting to think I'll never get back to work, either."

"Yeah," Johnny said. "I hear ya. B'lieve me, I get it."

Mike instantly felt chagrined. His shoulder and hand injuries were nothing compared to some of the poundings Johnny had taken over the six years they'd known each other.

"Sorry," Mike said.

Johnny looked up. "What for?"

"Being such a whiner. It shouldn't be such a big deal."

"It is, though." Johnny put down the stick he'd been using to stir the embers, and held his hand over the fire pit to feel for heat. He sat back on his heels and looked up at Mike. "I get it. You feel like you're never gonna get better, never gonna get fit again. You sit at home thinkin' about nothin' but how long it's gonna take. You wonder whether you're really gonna be able to do it—really be able to get back to work. And meanwhile, everyone you know is just doin' what they always do, and don't have any more time for you than they ever did, because they're still busy with work." He shook his head. "Man, guys who've never got knocked down before—they think this whole medical leave thing is like a big vacation. But it ain't. It's boring, scary, and rotten. But most of all, it's lonely. So believe me—I understand."

"Yeah," Mike said quietly. "Yeah, you do. You really do. Thanks."

Johnny stood up and brushed his hands off. "Any time. C'mon—let's turn in. We've got luxury bunks waitin' for us in Chet's van."

With much rustling and fumbling, they found their respective bunks, and bedded down for the night. After the flashlights had been turned off, Mike closed his eyes, hoping against hope that he'd fall asleep easily.

"Hey, Mike?" Johnny said.

"Uh huh?"

"You ever think about, you know, what if …" Johnny paused.

Mike gave him a few seconds—it wasn't like Johnny to be at a loss for words, and he was curious to see where this was going. "What if what?" he prompted, after a few more seconds of silence.

"Nah, never mind. Forget it."

"No, what?" Mike asked, propping himself up on an elbow. "Seriously."

Johnny hesitated, knowing that personal questions often resulted in a total shutdown from Mike. But he decided to give it a try anyhow, considering their conversation while putting out the fire had been slightly personal. "You ever think about what you would do, if you couldn't do the job any more?"

Mike nodded. "Yeah. Did a lotta thinking, these last few weeks."

"What'd you come up with, if you don't mind my asking?"

Surprisingly, Mike found that he _didn't_ mind. "I took a couple arson investigation courses at the academy a couple years back. When I turned thirty, I guess I started thinking about gettin' old, and what that means in this career. So I might apply to the Arson Unit," he said, "if I ever couldn't do what I really like."

"Huh," said Johnny. "Yeah, I c'n see that. You'd be good at it—you've got that eye for detail, and you're real organized. Not just like, you know, neat and tidy and stuff, but also organized in how you think."

"Thanks," Mike said. He did have those qualities, but didn't think anyone paid enough attention to notice that, so he was intrigued that Johnny had not only noticed that but was willing to say so. And Mike didn't want to pry, but Johnny _had_ started this conversation. "How 'bout you?"

Johnny hesitated. "It's pretty crazy," he said.

"I doubt it. But if it's too personal, then, well, never mind." Mike had figured out long ago that, much like he himself did, Johnny got uncomfortable talking about personal topics.

"Well, I guess I never told anyone this before—not even Roy. For some reason, he and I never really talk about the 'what-ifs,' ya know? But what I'd probably do, is I'd be a nurse. I mean, unless I was too busted up for that, too. It's weird for a guy—I know. But it's probably what I'd do."

"I don't think it's weird."

"Ya don't? Seriously?"

"No. It's kind of, I dunno, one step away from being a paramedic, right? The patients aren't quite as, uh, fresh, when the nurses get 'em, but it's the same kind of thing—taking care of people when they're at their worst. And you're really good at that," Mike said. "And there's no reason why men shouldn't do that job," he continued, understanding why Johnny thought the idea was weird. "None at all. In fact, the one night I spent at Rampart for this stupid shoulder, I was pretty damned glad not to have some woman helping me with, um, stuff."

Johnny laughed. "Yeah, tell me about it."

"WILL YOU TWO SHUT THE HELL UP? SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!" Chet bellowed from his tent.

"Sorry!" Mike shouted back. "Anyhow," he whispered, "it's not weird."

"Thanks," Johnny whispered. "Well, g'night."

"Good night. Throw something at me if I'm snoring."

"Earplugs, remember? Sleep well."

Mike Stoker did _not_ sleep well. In fact, he didn't sleep at all. At first, he didn't mind—it was nice watching Johnny sleep, seeing his face with no expression at all, listening to his breathing, and trying to decipher the little mumblings he produced in his sleep. But, every time Mike was about to drift off to sleep, he was reminded of the fact that he was not alone, and who he was with, and was wide awake again.

By the time the sun started to rise, Mike had had enough. He grabbed his sling, put it on, slid some sweatpants over his boxers, and put his jacket over his shoulders. He quietly left the van, leaving the door slightly ajar so as not to wake Johnny with the slamming sound the door made when it closed completely.

In the morning chill, Stoker started slowly gathering tinder, placing it in the firepit, and making a cone of kindling over the tinder. One-handed, he stacked a couple pieces of firewood within reach for when the tinder caught. He knelt by the firepit, and, holding the matchbox in his knees, struck a match, and held it to the tinder.

The tinder caught immediately. Even though fire season was technically over, all the tinder he'd collected was dry and ready to burn. The kindling caught, and after it was blazing, Mike added the logs he had ready.

"Not bad for a guy with one arm," a voice behind him said.

Mike practically jumped out of his skin—he hadn't realized anyone else was up. "Oh, hey, Johnny. Thought you were still out cold."

"Nah, one whiff of smoke and I'm up for good. Bet the others won't be far behind," Johnny predicted. He headed to a rope that was cleated around a stub of a branch about six feet off the ground, and began unwinding it. He lowered the bag of food that they'd hoisted out of the reach of any bears in the area, rummaged through the bag, and got out a can of coffee.

"Here, gimme, I'll make it," said Stoker. "Least that's something I can manage around here."

"Okay, I'll start some eggs." Johnny brought over water for the powdered eggs and the coffee, and he and Stoker started a campfire breakfast.

The two men heard the sound of a tent zipper opening. Cap and Roy emerged from the tent they shared, followed shortly by Marco and Chet, from the next tent.

The men all exchanged bleary-eyed "g'mornin's."

Chet started right in with the remarks. "So, once you two shut the hell up, it was awful quiet around here all night—I didn't hear a single chainsaw. What was your magical secret for not snoring last night, Stoker?"

"Not sleeping," Mike replied, jabbing the fire with a stick.

"Then what _were_ ya doin', huh Stoker?" poked Chet.

"Just … not sleeping. Don't you ever have insomnia?" He stomped off into the woods, who knew where.

"Hey, where ya goin'?" shouted Chet. "I'm just teasin', you know."

"Takin' a leak, moron."

"All right—let us know if you need a hand," Chet joked. The others just shook their heads at him.

"Man, Chet—kick him when he's down, why dontcha?" said Marco. "And by the way, Gage, what'd you do to keep him up all night? I didn't hear a thing—well, after you guys finally quit with the chit-chat." Everyone knew that Marco had the keenest ears of any of them, and was woken by any sound.

Gage looked—and felt—baffled. "Nothin'! Man, you guys always think the worst of me. I was just sleepin'! In fact, I slept like a log. Can't remember the last time I slept so good. Guess Mikey's my good luck charm."

Roy choked on his coffee and coughed heavily.

"You all right, there, pal?" asked Cap, pounding his back.

"Yeah," said Roy hoarsely, "just got some coffee down the wrong tube."

"Aren't you fancy paramedics s'posta know the difference?" asked Chet.

"Somebody, please, poison him now and put him out of our misery!" said Marco. "And, speaking of poisoning, we better get to fishing if we're gonna have any dinner tonight!"

Cap groaned. "Aw, c'mon, guys; you know I can't eat fish anymore since that grateful couple— what were their names? —who tortured us with their Trout a la Soot and Salmon Surprise! I don't care _what_ you catch—I'm opening a can of chili."

"Oh, yeah, the Merkles! Now _that_ was a disaster. Wonder what station they're attached to now?" said Marco.

The guys finished their eggs, washed the dishes, and set out in different directions for their day's plans. Johnny, Roy, and Chet set out fishing. Marco and Cap wanted to see if they could make a lean-to out of branches they found. Mike wasn't sure what he was going to do for the rest of the day, but headed to the van to grab a nap.

~!~!~!~

By early afternoon, Mike felt reasonably well rested. He emerged from the van to find nobody else present. By the fire-pit, there was a note for him:

Dear Sleeping Beauty: We didn't want to wake you, but we're all at a swimming hole about half a mile down the Deep Woods Trail. If you manage to wake up, come for a swim! —The Guys

Swimming sounded good. He put his swim trunks on, and followed the sign to the trail to join the rest of the gang. At the end of the trail, as promised, was a swimming hole that was so perfect it almost didn't look real. A pebbled shore surrounded the clear, clean water. There were a few rushes growing on one side of the pond-like area, but other than that, you could see clear to the bottom in the rest of the pool. There was a trickle of a waterfall coming from a cliff about twenty feet up one side of the natural pool.

"Hey, man, come on in! The water's great!" hollered Chet.

Johnny and Marco were giving everyone heart attacks with their cliff-jumping contest, and Chet, Roy, and Cap were just enjoying the water. Mike thought that a dip in the water, without the sling, might be just the thing to loosen up his shoulder.

They all spent the rest of the afternoon at the swimming hole. Finally, they grabbed their string of fish from a deep, cold pool, and headed back to camp.

By the time they'd cleaned, cooked, and eaten the fish—minus Captain Stanley, who made good on his promise not to touch the stuff—it was getting dark and cool.

"I'll bet it rains tonight," said Johnny.

"What, are you kidding? The sky is clear! Look at the stars, man," said Chet.

"Nope, definitely gonna rain," Johnny insisted.

"I dunno, John; Chet's right—it's awfully clear and calm right now. Why do you think it's gonna rain?" Cap asked.

"Well, on account of I've broken this leg—" he gestured to his right leg— "twice, and it tells me it's gonna rain! C'mon, don't tell me none of the rest of you have a weather-wise bone or two. We've all got beat up some, haven't we?" he pressed.

"Sure, Gage, but not like you," said Chet. "I mean, you're a walking accident machine. Though I have to say, Stoker's show last month was pretty good. What about it, Mike? That cactus hand have anything to say about a storm?"

Mike looked noncommittal. "I dunno—shoulder's kinda achy, but I probably overdid it with the swimming."

Marco yawned loudly. "I don't know about you guys," he said, "but I'm gonna finish this beer and then turn in."

"Yeah, me too. Anyone wanna trade spots tonight?" asked Roy, not so sure he wanted to spend a night in a tent with someone who'd had beer and chili for dinner. Nobody bit. "Johnny, you okay with the snoring?" he continued, figuring he should at least try to rescue Stoker from another night of no sleep.

"Like I said, man, earplugs. Plus, Mike and I will be all warm and dry when it starts pouring later," said Johnny. "You'll see."

The guys picked up their beer cans, hoisted the empties up in the tree along with the food, and watered and stirred the embers of the fire. They headed to their respective bunks and tents.

Inside the van, Johnny and Mike straightened out their bunks, and made piles here and there of supplies.

"Man, I'm totally beat," said Johnny. "Nothin' like cliff-diving and a whole afternoon in a swimming hole to wear a guy out. You think you'll be able to sleep tonight, Mike?"

"Dunno," was Mike's terse reply. _Probably not, with your royal sexiness tossing around all night again._

"What kept ya up all night, anyhow? Was I thrashing around? Roy complains about that at the station sometimes. Once I even fell out of my bunk, right on my boots!"

"You mumble in your sleep, too. Pretty funny," smiled Stoker.

"What'd I say? Nothing incriminating, I hope." Johnny waggled his eyebrows, and Mike just about had to run outside. "I mean, I wouldn't want half the nursing staff of Rampart to come after me with pitchforks and torches."

"Nah. I couldn't really tell what you were saying. It was just—" _cute? Hot?—_ "funny."

Mike rummaged in his duffel bag, and grabbed a bottle of aspirin. He fumbled with the child-proof cap, and finally handed it to Johnny in frustration. "Can you open this? Stupid childproof caps—more like injured-person proof."

Johnny pushed down and turned, and popped a couple tablets out for Mike. "Here ya go. I'll tell ya, though; aspirin is deadly poison if you take too much. I'll bet these new caps save a lotta kids."

_Well, at least I know what I can use to kill myself if I find myself watching him all night again. _ "Yeah, I guess. Anyhow, thanks." He dry-swallowed the pills, and tried to work the soreness out of his shoulder.

"Hey, when do ya go back for a checkup? They gonna turn you loose for PT soon?"

"Um, Monday," replied Stoker. "S'posta start PT next week."

"Great! You didn't tear any ligaments clean through or break your collarbone, so you'll be back to the action in no time. Even if it feels like forever." Johnny stripped down to his boxers and climbed into his bunk. "Well, nighty night. Just whack me if I'm keepin' you up, 'kay? I won't even remember."

"Okay. G'night." MIke tried desperately not to think of what he _really_ wanted to do if Gage was keeping him awake. He flipped the van's dome light off, undressed down to his t-shirt and boxers, and did his best to get comfortable on the foam mattress of his bunk.

The starlight was bright enough that Mike could see Johnny's chest rise and fall, rise and fall. He had his arm over his forehead and eyes, just like he had the previous night as he fell asleep.

After a few minutes, Mike was sure Johnny was asleep. He could tell, because instead of lying still, Johnny kicked off his blanket, rolled over onto his stomach, and mumbled something incoherent into his pillow. His right arm dangled off the bunk.

Mike tried to think about sleeping at the station—after all, he never had trouble falling asleep when all five guys were there. But it was just different enough, having Gage all to himself like this, that once again, sleep was elusive.

After an hour or so, he'd had enough. Not believing Johnny's weather prediction in the slightest, Mike rolled up his sleeping bag, quietly opened the door of the van, and slipped out into the clear night. He laid his sleeping bag out on a reasonably flat bed of pine needles, and, mercifully, fell asleep nearly instantly.

Mike was sleeping so heavily when the rain started falling that he did not wake at first. But eventually, large droplets from the branches of the pine tree that partially protected him fell onto his face, demanding his attention.

"What the fuck?" By the time Stoker sat up, the rain was pounding down like cold bullets. He climbed out of his sleeping bag, which by that point was a sodden mess, and made for the van door.

Although the van was only five yards away, Stoker was a soaking, dripping mess by the time he reached the door. He forgot to be careful and quiet opening the van door, and threw himself into the van, slamming the door shut. "Fuck!" He threw his dripping sleeping bag over the console between the two front seats, and flipped on the dome light.

"Wha … huh?" said Johnny, as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Shit, Stoker—or should I say 'Soaker!' What the hell were you doing sleepin' outside? It's not like _I_ snore, and plus, you've got the cushiest bunk of anyone, thanks to that sling there." He looked at Mike. "Damn, but you're a mess." Water sheeted down Mike's legs, washing a few of the many pine needles stuck there onto the floor of the van.

Stoker just stood there dripping and shivering. He started to try to strip down to get dry, but with only one hand, and one that was only partially working at that, getting those clingy wet clothes off was not in the cards. He angrily kicked the door of the van, and stood there just dripping some more.

"Man, you're drippin' all over the place." Johnny stared at his friend, a dripping wet mess, tangled up in his half-removed t-shirt. "All right, all right, lemme help; just hold still." He stood up and reached towards Mike, to try to help him, but took a fast step back when Mike shrank back towards the sliding door of the van.

The rain was really cold, and Mike was chilled to the bone. But still, he didn't think he could tolerate having Johnny stripping his clothes off, even in a purely clinical way—which was _not_ the way he wanted something like that to happen. Not that it would ever happen any other way_._ But he was freezing, and shaking uncontrollably, and he knew perfectly well that he wasn't going to be able to get the sopping wet clothes off without help. He was so chilled that his punctured right hand, the only one he could use at all, was stiff and unwieldy. Anyhow, having just essentially had a cold shower, he figured like it was unlikely that he'd embarrass himself with a visible reaction of any kind.

"Okay," he said softly. "Lemme get a dry shirt and shorts." Mike climbed back into the sleeping area of the van and rummaged, one-handed, through his duffel bag until he found what he was looking for. He set the dry clothes on his bunk, and turned to see Johnny standing in front of him, in the dim light. With the van's top popped up, it was just possible for Mike to stand upright in the center of the sleeping area, but Johnny's hair brushed the ceiling.

Johnny gently removed the sling from Mike's left arm, took Mike's right hand, and helped him get it through the sleeve of the clinging t-shirt. He then peeled the soaking garment over Mike's head, and carefully worked it off the left arm. He toweled Mike's upper body off lightly, being extra careful to support his left arm, and got the new shirt on him. He held up the dripping sling, and asked, looking Mike in the eye for the first time, "Whaddaya think? Do you sleep without it anyhow?"

"Yeah—let's just hang it over the seat to dry." Mike rubbed his left shoulder to try to ease the ache the chill had left. He tried desperately to ignore the fact that his freezing, sodden boxers were being peeled off of him, and replaced with new, dry, mercifully warm ones.

"Thanks," he said, through chattering teeth. He'd survived. He was drier, but he couldn't truthfully say he was warmer. And having Johnny's hands all over him, after nearly two nights of trying to get past his surely inappropriate feelings, had set him on edge.

"You're welcome," Johnny said. He flipped the dome light on, and frowned. He grabbed a blanket from his bedroll, and moved towards Mike with it. "Your lips are blue. Lemme get you wrapped up, and—"

But Mike knew he had to keep Johnny's hands off him, or there'd be trouble.

"Johnny, stop. Just … don't." Mike snatched the slightly damp towel off of his duffel bag and crawled into the passenger's seat of the van.

"C'mon, man, you're gonna catch your death! Now lemme help," Johnny insisted quietly, squeezing into the driver's seat.

To Johnny's dismay, Mike sat in the passenger's seat with his buried his head in his hands.

"Mike, man, I'm sorry. Whatever I did or said, I'm sorry. Talk to me, will ya, please?" Johnny asked quietly.

Silence.

"All right. I'll wait. Despite what everyone thinks, I can be really, really patient when I want to."

Johnny sat quietly, wondering what was going on in Mike's head. Wondering if maybe it was what he thought it might be. Hoped it might be. He looked at Mike, saw him shivering, saw steam coming off his body in the cold of the van. He just couldn't stand to see him like that, and, despite what he'd just said about patience, he reached towards Mike with the blanket again. Mike's eyes flashed, with a feeling Johnny couldn't identify, and he leaned away from Johnny.

"Don't!" was Mike's agonized cry. "Please, just … don't touch me!" He was breathing hard, hunching forward as if to protect his midsection. "Not unless you mean it."

_Mean it?_

Johnny suddenly found that he could hardly breathe. His mind flashed back to the day of the brush fire, when he'd been splinting up Mike's dislocated shoulder to get him ready to go to Rampart. He'd found himself on the receiving end of some looks from Mike that left him flustered and confused. And a teensy bit hopeful. He'd quickly convinced himself, though, that those scorching glances were a byproduct—along with the uncharacteristic motormouthing—of ten milligrams of morphine, and weren't anything real. So Johnny put the whole incident out of his mind, along with any hope of … well, anything. Because the "anything" he'd thought of, that day, violated pretty much every rule he'd ever made for himself about getting involved with people who didn't happen to be women.

But now, he was right back where he started. Flustered and confused, all over again, but also pretty sure he was on the right track.

Johnny held the blanket out at arm's length, and Mike finally took it and draped it over himself.

"Okay, Mike. It's okay. I think I see what you mean. And I'll wait till you want to talk. Like I said, I'm pretty patient."

Mike looked up. "Patient? _Patient? _You don't _get_ it—this has nothing to _do_ with patience. And I _don't_ think you see what I mean. It's—I … I'm not who you think I am, all right? You're not _like_ me." He looked away, ashamed of his outburst, and not sure whether Johnny had really understood him.

Johnny was silent for a moment. He flashed back to the brush fire again, and closed his eyes to recapture the look he'd seen then. He found that image, and rolled it over and over in his head. He knew he was walking on dangerous ground, at the edge of a precipice. He couldn't resist getting closer to that edge, but he fumbled his words badly along his way.

"You … you're … you like, uh …" Johnny's heart pounded in his chest, as he heard all the wrong words pouring out of his mouth. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_._ Way to go, Gage_.

"See?" Mike said. "You can't even _say_ it. Hell, _I _can't even say it—not to one of the people I've had to hide it from for so long. But it's like I said: you're not _like_ me. Now you know." He turned towards the window, to try to look away, but it had turned into a mirror. All he could see was his own reflection, and Johnny's reflection behind his.

Johnny's eyes locked with Mike's in the mirror of the window. He composed himself, and his words, before he spoke again. He couldn't let himself get this wrong. Couldn't blow his chance. If there even was one.

"Mike, you're right—I'm _not_ like you. I'm not like _anyone_. I'm not _anything_. I don't belong _anywhere_, not completely. Any fence between two worlds? I'm sittin' right on it. I'm half everything, and all nothing. Half Indian, half white. Half fireman, half medic. Half super rescue hero, half incredible klutz. Oh yeah, and last but not least, half straight, half gay." Johnny sat back and waited, oh, so patiently, for Mike's reaction to that last pair of contrasts.

Mike froze. For several seconds, he wondered if he'd heard right. Finally he turned around, meeting Johnny's eyes for real for the first time since he came back inside the van.

"I never … I have rules for myself. At work. I never let myself think … you know. But then there was the shoulder, and the morphine, and … and I was _looking_ at you, just like I don't let myself, and Roy noticed, and …" Mike couldn't finish. He reached up and turned the dome light off again, so there were no more mirrors, no more reflections.

"I noticed, too," Johnny said softly. "I saw how you were lookin' at me. And I liked it. A lot. But I have the same rules, right? So I made myself decide it was the drugs."

Mike looked back up in the near darkness. "You liked it?"

"A lot," Johnny repeated. He reached across from the driver's seat to tuck the blanket around Mike's shoulders, and this time Mike didn't pull away. "I didn't let myself hang onto the idea though. 'Cause … I had no idea if what I thought I was seein' meant anything or not. And, Serena …" Johnny left off there, feeling himself getting too close to the cliff again. He didn't really know what was at the bottom of the cliff, either. Serena had been a fixture in Mike's life for nearly the entire time Johnny had known him, and that was a piece of the puzzle that he wasn't understanding.

"Serena's my cover," Mike said softly, "and I'm hers. It's apparently just as unacceptable to be a lesbian kindergarten teacher as a gay fireman. Although if someone outed her, _she'd_ just get fired, not lynched. So Serena and me … we're not for real. We're just old friends, who help each other out."

Johnny let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. "I, uh … I'm glad to hear that. And lemme tell ya, you're both real good actors, 'cause you had me fooled. And I even have two different sets of eyes to look with, if you know what I mean. I really doubt anyone else on our shift would figure anything out, anyhow."

Stoker had to laugh at that. "Roy did."

Johnny's eyes bugged out. "_Roy_ did? Are you _kidding_ me? Mister Traditional himself?"

"Yep. I said he noticed, when I was looking at you. Roy's got gaydar, but not bi-dar, apparently, 'cause he warned me off you big time." Stoker found himself smiling at the memory of that moment—exceedingly uncomfortable at the time, and not just because of the dislocated shoulder and cactus-spine impaled hand.

"All right, okay, you gotta let me in on this. You actually _talked_ to _Roy_? About _that_? I mean, _me_? I mean, _this_? I mean, aw hell, I don't know _what_ I mean." Johnny shook his head, partly in disbelief, partly in confusion. _Can't make up my mind about anything, can I?_

"Less like talking to; more like blabbing at," said Mike, who was feeling less shy by the moment.

"I give up! I give up!" Johnny held both hands up in mock surrender. "When? How? _Why_? I mean, 'blabbing' is not something anyone associates with the mysterious Michael Stoker."

"My friend MS, again. Let's just say my, uh, verbal inhibitions got loosened up a bit. I spilled my guts to him in the ambulance on the way to Rampart. Then I tossed my cookies. Fun day, all in all."

Mike seemed to be letting his guard down, so Johnny took another step forward. _Let's take a chance, here._

"Was it real?" Johnny asked. "That look I was liking so much?"

Mike didn't reply for a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, it was real. You had it right."

"Good," Johnny said simply. And then, just as he'd hoped he would, he found himself right at the other end of that look, once again.

He took another leap. "Ya know what? You're still blue, and you're still shivering. I can provide you with some excess body heat, if you're so inclined. I've got plenty. And, well, I'm kinda thinkin' it would be nice to share it."

Mike's eyes flashed, and the look changed to something different. "I don't need your pity."

"That's not what I'm offering," Johnny said softly. "What I said was, it would be nice to share some body heat. With you. And see what happens. And it ain't Paramedic Gage who's saying that, to take care of a victim. It's _me_, sayin' it to _you_. Me, the guy who liked how you were lookin' at him that day."

The look changed again, back to where it had been. Blue eyes locked with brown, for what seemed like hours, until Mike broke the silence. "Let's not burn out Kelly's battery while we share that heat of yours." He reached up to turn the dome light off again.

"Wait." Johnny took his hand, blocking him from turning off the light switch.

Mike didn't say anything. He just let Johnny hold onto his ice-cold hand, and waited for him to continue.

"I know we gotta turn the light off. For a couple reasons. But I just wanted to see that look for a little longer."

Johnny let Mike's hand go, and then reached over to flip the dome light off himself. They didn't move, for a long moment, neither of them quite sure how to finally close the gap between them.

But Johnny broke the ice. He crawled out from the driver's seat, and extended a hand to help Mike out from the passenger's seat. They stood in the center of the van, between the bunks, and Johnny slowly, gently drew Mike towards him, wrapping them both in the blanket that he had placed around Mike's shoulders. Shivering became trembling, and cold became heat, as the space between them disappeared.

**TBC**


	2. Back To The World

**Invisible Minority**

**Chapter 2: Back To The World**

Johnny sat bolt upright, woken by strong, loud vibrations. Was it an earthquake? He tried to step out of his bunk into his boots and bunker pants, figuring the station's tones would sound at any second if there had in fact been a major tremor. But the rumbling continued, and his feet couldn't find his boots, or, oddly, even the edge of his bunk.

_Oh_.

Mike snored again, loudly, and Johnny chuckled quietly as he realized where he was, and what the rumbling vibrations were. He lay back down next to his companion, on the double mattress they'd made on the floor of the van two nights ago. He was about to try to gently roll Mike to his right side, to avoid hurting that sore left shoulder, when a voice yelled out from the campsite.

"Shut the hell up, Stoker!" Chet shouted. "Jesus Christ, Gage, can't you keep him quiet?"

Johnny grinned – Chet had _no_ idea how much work had gone into that task the last two nights. Johnny could just barely hear the three other men in the tents berating Chet for being so noisy.

He decided to risk trying to roll Mike over. He climbed over to Mike's left side, and set about turning him to his right side. Mike swatted at him with his left hand—and that movement must have been painful for his shoulder, because Mike woke with a start.

"Wha— ow!" He looked around – the sun was just starting to come up, so he was able to see Johnny's apologetic expression.

"Sorry!" Johnny whispered. "You were snoring, and Chet yelled at you, so I was trying to roll you over. Sorry, didn't mean to wake ya."

"'s okay," Mike said sleepily. "C'mere." He rolled onto his right side, and pulled Johnny's arm over him, holding Johnny's arm to his own chest. Johnny snuggled up to him, spoon-style, nuzzling into the back of Mike's neck.

"Mmm, mm mm," Johnny said quietly, right into Mike's ear. "I do like this whole waking up together business."

"Yeah," Mike whispered back. "Almost as good as the whole going to sleep together business."

"But not nearly as good as the _before_ going to sleep together business," Johnny added.

"Nope. That's the winner, for sure. It sure was a pain having to be so quiet, though," Mike complained. "I mean, we got the rest of the guys pretty wasted last night, but still."

"Close neighbors are kind of … limiting, aren't they. Well, we oughta maybe snooze a little more, 'cause I've got some plans for you for when we get back to the real world."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh."

"Me too."

They dozed together until the sun rose the rest of the way, and streamed through the windshield.

"Hey, babe, we better get off of each other. The sun's way up," Mike whispered, starting to disentangle himself, "and the other guys could be up any time."

"Aw, I don't hear any tent zippers. Nobody's lookin'. Or there's no way I'd do this," Johnny said softly, as he swiftly pinned Mike to the mattress and kissed him, thoroughly and lengthily, until they eventually had to come up for air.

"You're a bad, bad boy, Gage."

"Well, you know I like to live dangerously," Johnny said. "C'mon—how 'bout we sneak down to the swimming hole for a while?"

"Okay. I doubt the other guys are gonna want to be up for a while yet."

They put on their trunks, grabbed their towels, and opened the door of the van as quietly as possible. They padded quietly down the trail to the swimming hole for some final time alone before the camping trip would have to end.

~!~!~!~

At the swimming hole, Johnny and Mike lounged in the cool water for a while, carefully remembering that they were, in fact, completely in public. They were both pleasantly surprised with the morning's combination of easy silence and conversation. Mike had expected some awkwardness from Johnny, and Johnny had expected some from himself.

On the rare occasions when Johnny had actually found himself waking up next to someone else—male or female—he found the "morning after" to be difficult. With women, he usually felt uncomfortable with any conversation with emotional content, and they often seemed to want to "talk about things." And he usually found that outside the small-talk of dating, he didn't have much to talk about with the women he was attracted to, when it came right down to it.

With the men, a night spent together was usually understood in advance to be a casual, one-time thing, two adults using each other and then letting go afterwards. Any morning-after conversation, when things even lasted that long, usually consisted of a sincere "thanks for the fun," and a less-sincere "See you at the clubs sometime."

So the experience of waking up with someone, and knowing things were okay, and feeling like he wanted to spend the rest of the day with the person rather than flee to avoid conversation, was new for Johnny. And he found himself liking it.

Mike popped up from underwater, right next to him. "I'm clean. And freezing. Wanna go dry off?"

"Yeah—hey, let's go up the cliff, see what we can see," suggested Johnny. They got out of the water, toweled off, and climbed to the top of the cliff that Marco and Johnny had been jumping off the first day. They found a large flat rock that had been warmed by the morning sun, and sat down next to each other. They couldn't see as far as the campsite, but they could see the trail that led there, and could see evidence of a campfire at about the right distance to suggest it was theirs.

Johnny pointed to the thin column of smoke. "Bet that's our guys," he said. "Should we let 'em stew for a while?"

"Yeah—I'm starving, but I don't think they'd appreciate smelling anything cooking right now," Mike said, chuckling. "So let's just hang out for a little while."

"Okay," Johnny said. He looked at Mike, and then looked away. "I, uh, kinda need to tell you somethin' anyhow."

Those words made Mike freeze, and made his heart drop into his feet. _Shit. I know what's coming now: `This is a big mistake,' or 'I can't do this,' – that's what's coming. I knew it_.

Mike exhaled slowly, kept his hands to himself, and turned around on their rock so he could look right at Johnny, to face the music. "Okay, Johnny. Tell me," he sighed.

Johnny reached over and took Mike's hand—_that was unexpected, _Mike thought—and looked him in the eye. "Well, I guess I have a kind of, um, bad reputation. For, I guess, being a jerk, or, uh," he said nervously, looking away, "or maybe for, uh, just tryin' to get some, and then not caring."

"Yeah," said Mike, neutrally, "that's possibly something that's been said around the department." _And here it comes. He's gonna tell me this can only be a one-shot, don't take this too seriously, et cetera, blah blah blah. I know._

"I thought about it all day yesterday. 'Cause I knew that was somethin' you woulda heard. But I guess what I'm tryin' to say is, um, I _do_ care." Johnny looked down at the swimming hole, not looking Mike in the eye, but still holding his hand.

_Huh?_ thought Mike.

"Huh?" he said aloud.

"I care—a _lot—_about what's happening here," Johnny said softly, looking Mike in the eye again. "So if you don't—care, I mean—then we shouldn't, um, do anything else, ya know? So nobody gets … Damn, I'm no good at this," he swore quietly, looking away.

Mike considered Johnny's unexpected but heartfelt, if inelegant, words, and tried to make his brain work again to formulate a response. He had to think carefully about how to phrase the question he had, so as not to offend, but he needed to know the answer.

"Do you deserve your reputation?"

Johnny winced a little, but didn't back away, and didn't let go of Mike's hand.

"I guess. I uh, don't let people get close, is the problem. Push 'em away."

Mike reached over to smooth Johnny's hair out of his eyes. "And what would be different this time?" he asked gently, touched by Johnny's honesty.

"I thought about that, too. What's different is, you already know me, and you still seem to like me all right, even though I act like an idiot half the time," said Johnny. "So I guess since you maybe like me all right already, I don't hafta do that dumb thing of pretending I'm someone I'm not, and then pulling away or pushing back when I can't keep fakin' it anymore."

"I _do_ like you. But not just 'all right'—a _lot_. And you know what else?" Mike didn't wait for an answer. "I think '_act_ like an idiot' is exactly the right phrase, 'cause from what I can tell—and believe me, I've been paying attention—you're anything _but_ an idiot. And anyone who really knows you can tell that."

Mike could see Johnny's body relaxing a bit, so he moved back so they were sitting right next to each other again, and leaned into him a bit.

"Okay," said Johnny, quietly, not protesting Mike's pronouncement, or his closeness. "But _you_ didn't answer _my_ question."

Mike hadn't forgotten, and he also wasn't about to compulsively point out that Johnny hadn't actually _asked_ a question. He just said, "I _do_ care, Johnny. I care a whole lot. I'm sorry you didn't realize."

"Okay. Me too," whispered Johnny. His face was still downcast, and he looked a little sad.

Mike just couldn't stand that look. His eyes darted to the end of the trail, which was still deserted. He gently turned Johnny's face towards him, and his lips made themselves at home on Johnny's cheekbones, eyelids, and anywhere else they seemed necessary.

"This is gonna be tricky," Johnny said, finally.

"Yeah, it will."

"But it'll be worth it."

"That too," said Mike.

They sat together for another few minutes, not saying anything, but both comfortable with the silence.

"C'mon," Johnny said, standing up and offering Mike a hand up. "We oughta get back."

"Yeah, I'm starved, anyhow. To heck with their sensitive, hung-over stomachs. It's breakfast time."

"Darned straight it is. But I just gotta tell you one more thing. A good thing," he added hastily, seeing Mike's face fall again.

"What?" Mike asked, narrowing his eyes, but smiling at the same time to take the sting out of his mock suspicion.

Johnny cleared his throat. "I cheated," he announced.

"Huh?"

"I, uh … peeked. With the earplugs, in the mug."

Mike looked at him slyly. "You did, huh?"

"Yep. And if Cap or Chet had gotten that orange one, I was all set to just swap with them anyhow, since I knew nobody wanted that other bunk. But I did. Bad."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You wanna bunk with me again, tonight, at my place?" Mike asked, after a few seconds of contemplating Johnny's confession.

"You bet I do. And I bet you don't have any neighbors sleeping in tents a couple yards away, do ya?"

"Nope."

~!~!~!~

Halfway between the campsite and the swimming hole, Mike and Johnny encountered Roy coming towards them on the path.

"Hey, there you guys are," said Roy. "We were gonna wake you guys up for breakfast, but nobody was home in the van. Chet was trying to convince us all an act of murder had been committed, due to extreme snoring, so I came to avert a drowning."

"Too late," said Stoker. "He killed me in my sleep and buried me in a shallow grave."

"Well, that's all right, then," said Roy. "You guys hungry?"

"Hey, it's me!" said Johnny. "Whaddaya think?"

The three men headed back to their hung-over companions at the campsite, who were watching the fourth pot of coffee percolate.

"Hey, coffee!" said Johnny. "That'll be good. Let's see, what else do we got—aha! Pancake mix! Far out!"

"You volunteering to cook, Gage?" asked Marco.

"Seems safe—hard to wreck pancake mix," said Roy. "So yes, he's volunteering."

"Stoker, you need a job," said Cap. "Why dontcha pour out the next pot of coffee. Hey, aren't you still supposed to be wearing that sling?"

"Hm, yeah—it was better yesterday, but this morning it's pretty sore. I'll go get that before I pour out the coffee."

"Too bad," said Cap. "I guess you must've slept on it funny or something."

"Or something," Mike agreed, as he headed to get the sling.

Johnny started mixing up the pancake batter. It was indeed hard to wreck, as only water needed to be added. He mixed it up to the right consistency, pulled the cooking grate down over the fire pit, and placed the large skillet on the grate.

"Geez, Gage, can ya stop with all the clanging?" said Chet, holding his head. "I don't know how you and Stoker managed to avoid the massive hangovers the rest of us have, but show a little pity, here."

"Moderation, Chet. Simple moderation," said Stoker, who was back with his arm in the sling again.

"Maybe you could've exercised some of your moderation with the snoring, pal. Man, that was like an earthquake!" complained Chet. "Geez Gage, I can't believe you didn't notice that."

"Oh, I heard plenty from Stoker last night, believe me," said Johnny. "Plenty."

"Yeah?" said Mike. "Seemed like you weren't sleeping too much yourself, pal. Seemed like you hardly stopped moving all night." He grinned into his coffee.

"Okay, first round of pancakes is up. Cap? Rank hath its privileges and all, so gimme yer plate," ordered Johnny. He served up the griddle cakes, and started the next round.

"Anyone seen the syrup? I know I packed some," said Marco. "Never mind—here it is, Cap."

Cap started in on his stack of pancakes. "Not bad, Gage—maybe you could add that to your repertoire at the station."

"Pancakes for dinner? Now that's an idea whose time has come," said Stoker. "Hey, engineer next, right?" He held out his plate for the pancakes coming off the skillet.

Johnny finished cooking up pancakes for Marco, Chet, and finally himself. Everyone finished their meals, and cleanup of the campsite began. Johnny and Mike washed up the breakfast dishes, extinguished the fire, and packed up the cookware and dishes, while the others took care of their tents and sleeping bags.

Roy, Marco, and Chet were all looking fairly green around the gills by the end of the clean-up.

"Chet, are you okay to drive the van?" asked Roy. "Cause it would be no problem for me to drive if you wanted."

"Nah, I'm good—Marco and I'll just keep the windows rolled down for fresh air. Best hangover cure in the world," said Chet.

"Um, Johnny?" said Roy. "I know how you get carsick and all, but to be honest, I think I'm gonna be worse off than you on this trip back. You mind if I take shotgun? Mike, you mind sharing the back seat with Gage, or have you two had enough of each other?"

Johnny waved him off. "No problem—I'll probably conk out as soon as the engine starts, anyhow; sleep the whole way home. Somehow, I ended up just not getting a whole lot of sleep on this trip."

"And no, I don't mind," Mike said. "I think I can tolerate his presence for a little while longer."

"Roy, maybe you and I can trade off on the driving, if that'll keep your stomach settled better," proposed Cap.

"Sounds fine," said Roy, "as long as Gage and Stoker can behave themselves in the back seat. Man, when we take the kids on trips it's just unbelievable. 'He's on my side!' and 'Mom, make him stop that!'"

"We'll try to behave," said Mike, "and keep our hands to ourselves."

The van was packed, the Oldsmobile's trunk stuffed to capacity, and the caravan was ready to roll.

"See you guys tomorrow, bright and early!" said Captain Stanley, as Chet and Marco hopped into the van.

"Mind if I take the first shift driving, Cap?" asked Roy.

"Be my guest," said Cap. "I may catch a snooze myself."

The four men climbed into their assigned seats in the Olds, and set off for the drive back to L.A.

"Are we there yet?" asked Stoker, as soon as Roy started the engine.

"I hafta go to the bathroom," said Johnny.

"You kids are gonna be really sorry if I have to pull this car over," said Roy, getting into the spirit of things. "Right, honey?" he said to Cap.

"I am waaay to old for this," sighed Cap, as the car pulled out of the park and onto the main road.

~!~!~!~

After about an hour of driving, Roy stopped at a filling station to tank up the car and get a cup of coffee. The other three occupants of the car were sound asleep. Cap was leaned against the passenger's-side window, and, to Roy's dismay, Johnny was toppled over onto Mike's good shoulder. Fortunately, it didn't seem like Mike even noticed this invasion of his personal space, as he was sound asleep as well.

Roy pumped ten bucks of gas into the tank, used the filling station's grubby facilities, and bought a cup of stale coffee inside the station. He got back in the driver's seat, not wanting to wake Cap, and hit the road.

The traffic was light, even as they approached L.A., it being late morning on a Friday. Stoker's place was the first logical stop, so Roy headed that direction to drop him off. He happened to look in the rear-view mirror as he pulled into Mike's street. Gage was pretty much in Stoker's lap, having toppled as far as his seat belt would let him. Alarmingly, Mike's arm crossed over the front of Johnny's chest, and it almost looked like Johnny was holding on to Mike's forearm, like it was a stuffed animal. Roy wondered how he would manage to get Gage off of Stoker without embarrassing either of them.

He pulled the Oldsmobile into the drive of Mike's bungalow, and shut off the engine. The sudden silence woke Captain Stanley, who looked around blearily. "Geez, Roy—you drove the whole way! You should've woken me up halfway."

Cap turned to say something to the backseat passengers, and couldn't completely stifle his laughter as he observed the sight of a sleeping Mike pretty much cuddling a totally-zonked-out Johnny.

"Hmm, maybe we better slam the door, or something," said Cap. "We oughta switch seats anyhow—you're next to get dropped off."

As Roy and Cap swapped seats, they each slammed their doors as loudly as possible.

"Wha—huh?" said Johnny, not quite awake.

"Sh, go back to sleep," whispered Mike.

"'kay."

Roy cringed. Johnny must've been dreaming he was with some girl, and lord only knew what was happening in Mike's subconscious. Cap just laughed.

"I'll take care of this, Roy." And in his loudest Captain's voice, he yelled "Roll call in two!"

That was all it took for the two passengers to wake up completely and hastily untangle themselves. "Oops, sorry," said Johnny, "guess I tipped over."

"Don't worry 'bout it; didn't notice a thing," said Mike. "Hey, we're here already! Man, I was out cold the whole way – didn't even notice you guys stopped to switch drivers."

"Actually, Roy drove the whole way—this old man missed the whole trip too," admitted Cap.

"Well, thanks for the ride, and for the trip," said Mike. "It was … well, it was really great to get outta the house."

"Hey, lemme give you a hand with your stuff," said Johnny. "Cap, can you toss me the key to the trunk?"

"No need for that, Gage. This car is modern—watch this!" He flipped a lever down by his foot, and the trunk magically popped open.

"Far out!" said Johnny. "What'll they think of next?"

Mike and Johnny got out of the vehicle, and Johnny wrangled Mike's gear out of the trunk. "Hey, Mike, you gonna be able to manage dealing with all this camping gear?" Johnny asked, making sure Cap and Roy could hear.

"Huh, that'll probably be pretty tricky, actually," Mike said.

"Well, how 'bout I stick around a little while and help you hang stuff up to air out, or whatever. And then you could drop my at my place." _Tomorrow morning_, he added silently.

"That'd be great, thanks Johnny. That way Cap and Roy'll get back to their families sooner anyhow. You sure you don't mind?"

Johnny finished unloading his and Mike's stuff from Cap's trunk. "'Course I don't mind." He closed the trunk lid.

"See you guys tomorrow," Johnny said. "Bright and early."

Cap backed his car out of the driveway, and Johnny and Mike watched him go. They stood there in the driveway for a moment, until Mike finally broke the silence.

"Well, Gage; I kinda think that we oughta go inside for what's next."

Johnny looked up. Sure enough, there was that look again.

**TBC**


	3. Shift

**Invisible Minority**

**Chapter 3: Shift**

Johnny parked his Rover in the lot behind the station. He realized he was actually early—no other A-shift cars were in the lot, except Cap's Delta 88, and Cap was always in by 0730. Well, he could just claim he went to bed really early—which was true—on account of being so tired from the trip—not so true. In reality, though, Mike had woken him up nice and early—with emphasis on the "nice" part. Well, and the "early" part, too. But he wasn't complaining.

The C-shift guys were still out on a run. Johnny looked at the call-station log, and saw it was a two-vehicle MVA with injuries, up on the 405, that they'd gotten called out for an hour ago. That could mean they'd be returning any time, or it could mean they'd be out for a while.

Johnny decided to make coffee. Before Stoker got hurt, he was always the one to make the first pot, as he was often in around the same time Cap came in. He put the percolator on the stove, and headed to the locker room to get into uniform.

Roy stopped short in the doorway of the locker room. "Hey, Junior. You sick or something?"

"Ha, ha. Nope, just on time for a change," he said, buttoning up his light-blue shirt.

"Well, yeah. That's why I asked if you were sick."

"And a good morning to you, too, partner! Sheesh!" Johnny rolled his eyes and shook his head. "A guy turns over a new leaf, and everyone gives him the third degree!"

Roy rolled his eyes. "A new leaf, huh? This is gonna be an interesting day…"

"I doubt it, Roy. I doubt it very much," said Johnny, thinking about his interesting night, and smiling hugely. "I think it's going to be really, really dull."

"Oh, boy," said Roy. "Maniac alert."

Johnny left Roy on his own in the locker room, and went to the kitchen to check on the coffee. It wasn't quite done, but a watched pot never boils, so Johnny wandered out to the apparatus bay to start checking on the squad. Which, of course, wasn't there, since it was out on a run.

_Wow, Gage, mind on the job_, Johnny thought. He walked past Cap's always-open door on the way back to the kitchen.

"Gage, is that you?" asked a surprised Captain Stanley, looking up from the logbook. He was reading up on the run reports from the four days that A-shift had been off.

Johnny turned the corner sharply to the office.

"Yeah, Cap, your eyes don't deceive you—I'm early. Not quite sure what to do with myself, either. I already put the coffee on. Should be done—ya want some?"

"Sure, thanks." Cap watched him in amusement. A cheerful Johnny always reminded him somehow of a cartoon character, but he couldn't exactly say which one.

_The Roadrunner?_ thought Cap. _No, that's not it._

Johnny returned seconds later with Cap's coffee. "Say, Cap, who's on for Stoker today?"

"Ed Jackson again."

Johnny harumphed.

"What?" asked Cap.

"Oh, nothing—he's fine, just fine. He's just kinda green, though, dontcha think?"

"Well of course he's green, John. You know perfectly well he just passed his engineer's test, and is only subbing for Mike till an engineer's slot opens up somewhere. What's the problem? You didn't have any complaints the last four weeks he's been with us," Cap said curiously. "In fact, you two really seemed to be hitting it off."

Johnny frowned. "Yeah, yeah; I know. But it'll just be good to have the whole shift back together again."

"True," said Cap. "And on the topic of the whole gang, I was thinking it might be kinder to Jackson if we didn't all spend the entire shift talking about how great the camping trip was, since, after all, he wasn't there."

"Good idea. I'll be sure to stay off the high points," Johnny replied, grinning.

Cap shook his head. "Boy, you're in fine form this morning, Gage."

"Can't complain, Cap. Can't complain. Hey, here come the other guys—see ya at roll call." Johnny practically bounded out of the room.

_Bugs Bunny? No, that's not it either. _ Though Cap did get a good mental laugh out of the image of John Gage, half-gnawed carrot in hand, leaning against the door frame of the office, saying, "Eh, what's up, Cap?"

Johnny headed back to the kitchen to get his own coffee. He poured a mug, and sat with his polished boots on the kitchen table. His mind wandered to the previous night, and he grinned stupidly into his coffee.

"Mornin', Gage," said Chet.

"G'mornin' Chet! How are ya?"

Chet stopped in his tracks and stared at Johnny. "What're _you_ in such a good mood for?"

Johnny tipped back his chair and sipped his coffee. "I dunno. It's just a good day, I guess."

Chet poured himself a mug of coffee. He stood back and scrutinized Johnny. Just then, Marco, Jackson, and Roy wandered in, all looking not quite ready to face the day.

"What's with him?" Chet asked Roy.

Roy looked irritated. "What am I, his zookeeper? How should I know? I already asked him myself, and all I got was crazy talk."

Marco got in the game as well. "I don't know, guys, he looks awfully cheerful for someone who's just getting back to work after a vacation."

Chet squinted at Johnny suspiciously. He circled the table, inspecting Johnny from every angle. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and pointed at Johnny. "You _got_ some last night! That's it! Friday night, hot date, right? That's it, guys! Gage got laid!"

Johnny didn't take the bait. He sat serenely, half smiling, feet still on the table, and sipped his coffee.

"Well?" said Ed.

"Well _what_?" said Johnny.

"Did ya, or didn't ya, you moron?" asked Chet. "Never mind, I know already. So who was she, Gage?"

"I'm not gonna bite, Chet," Johnny said calmly. _At least, not gonna bite _you_._

"Wow," said Roy. "Who are you, and what have you done with John Gage?"

"Roll call!" Cap hollered from the bay.

_Saved by the bugles_, thought Johnny.

"I'll get it out of you by the end of the shift, Johnny-baby," Chet promised.

"Five bucks says you won't," said Ed.

"Oooh, Jackson, you are on!" replied Chet, as the men slid into line in the apparatus bay.

"For the record, Jackson? Betting with Chet is never as fun as it seems like it's gonna be," said Johnny. "Something always gets turned around. But this time? I can tell you you're safe on that bet."

"All right, what are you twits betting about this time?" asked Cap.

"Uh, nothing, Cap," said Chet, not really wanting to explain his theory about Johnny's uncharacteristic behavior.

"Yeah, on second thought—I don't really wanna know anyhow," said Cap. "All right. Roy, John—you've got dorms and latrines. Work it out. Chet—I'm afraid for all of us that it's your turn to cook. Don't make fish or chili, and that's an order. Jackson, you and Marco are on apparatus bay cleaning for now, then hang hoses when C-shift gets back with the engine. After chores, we're going to go over some new trouble areas in our district—plenty of bad inspection reports coming in. Lots of morons out there. Dismissed."

Roy and John were often assigned dorms and latrines together. Their routine was to work on dorms first, then move on to cleaning the bathroom. They headed to the dorms to start changing the linens.

Roy opened the obvious topic right away. "So, you're really serious—you're actually not gonna say anything about your date, are you?"

Johnny grinned, and flung the linens off the first bed. "Who said I had a date? _I _didn't say I had a date—_Chet_ said it."

"And the really weird thing is," Roy continued, as if Johnny hadn't said a thing, "the whole camping trip, you never once mentioned you had a big date the night we got back. Now, _that's_ not like you at all."

"Well, maybe it's nothing like that at all," said Johnny. He threw some sheets onto the growing heap in the middle of the dorm. "Maybe I just won a million bucks in the lottery. Did _that_ ever occur to you?"

"No," Roy replied instantly, "because (a), you're too smart to play the lottery, and don't ever try to get me to admit I just said that, 'cause I'll deny it till the day I die, and (b), if you'd just come into a pile of money, you'd be blabbing that all over the station for sure."

They worked in silence—not anger, just silence—for a few minutes.

"Geez, I hope you didn't just pick up some girl from a bar or something," Roy nagged.

Johnny sighed, and plopped a pillow onto a bed. "Roy?"

"Yeah?"

"Let it be. Please?" Johnny looked at him seriously—no sarcasm, no jokes, no smirking; just a simple "please."

Roy gaped at Johnny. _My goofy, juvenile partner just made a mature, reasonable request_. "Okay," he replied softly. "But whatever's got you so out of character—it's a good thing, though, right?"

"Yeah, Roy," Johnny said dreamily. "Best thing that's come along ever, I think. And I don't wanna wreck it."

"Okay …" Roy was bursting with curiosity, but respected Johnny's request to leave the topic alone.

"But Roy? Punch me in the arm if I'm daydreaming on the job, 'kay?"

Roy chuckled. "That's a promise, partner."

"And I'm gonna be black and blue by the end of this shift," Johnny lamented, "'cause man, I think I am really, totally in l—um … gonna have a lot on my mind," he amended.

_And the curiosity is going to kill me,_ thought Roy.

~!~!~!~

"SQUAD 51, UNKNOWN TYPE RESCUE, 11784 HARGREAVES, 1-1-7-8-4 HARGREAVES, CROSS STREET ALISON, TIME OUT: 0920."

"Squad 51, KMG 365," responded Roy from the call station.

It was the first run of the shift. Roy and John had gotten all their chores done, and the engine had also not yet been called out, so the firehouse was in good shape for the day. Roy slipped into the driver's seat of the squad, followed shortly by Johnny.

"Unknown type rescue, huh," said Johnny, as they pulled out. "I hate these—ya never know if it's gonna be someone with a, I dunno, a comb stuck in their hair, or something serious."

"Yeah," shouted Roy over the siren, "but you know all our weirdest runs are the 'unknown' ones."

They arrived at the address, and found that it was odd but not hazardous.

"Back this way," said the woman who met them on the street. "I'm really sorry to call you out for this, but I didn't know what else to do."

They arrived at the back of the house, to discover a man on a stepladder, with his hand apparently stuck in a window.

"What happened?" asked Johnny.

"I was trying to take the screen out—you have to sort of bend it and pop it out—but it popped back in the track with my pinky finger still in there. I feel ridiculous, but I'm totally stuck. Every time I try to bend the screen, it feels like it's gonna cut my pinky right off."

Johnny and Roy looked at each other, sure they were thinking the same thing.

"Well, sir, I think the only way to work this is going to be to cut through the frame of the screen. With that pinky filling up the track, there's just no room to bend it any farther," said Roy.

"Yeah, I figured. I can't feel a thing in that pinky, by the way, so don't worry about whether it's going to hurt or not. Just get me outta here, please, so I can go crawl away and die from embarrassment."

"Oh, believe me, sir, you have nothing to worry about. We've seen much more embarrassing things than this—getting stuck doing a household project is perfectly understandable," said Johnny.

"Johnny, I'm thinking we can do this with bolt cutters—the frame isn't all that thick. If we have to, we could use a hacksaw, but I bet the cutters will do it."

Johnny ran to the squad to get the bolt cutters.

"Um, what are bolt cutters?" asked the nervous man.

"Well, they're kind of like heavy-duty scissors with really long handles to get good leverage. We use them on all sorts of things—combination locks, wire fences, whatever," said Roy, reassuringly.

Johnny trotted over with the bolt cutters. "Ma'am, could I do this from inside the house? It would be a little awkward to have both of us on that stepladder."

"Oh, certainly. Come right this way." She led him inside the house, through to the bedroom that contained the window in question.

Johnny inspected the screen and its frame, and stopped when he saw a pin sticking out from part of the frame. "Uh, Roy? Take a look at this," he said, pointing to the pin.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Roy said.

"Yep—looks like a quick-release to me. Let's give it a go."

Johnny pulled the pin, and sure enough, the entire screen's frame collapsed, freeing the man instantly.  
>"Good grief," he said, shaking out his pinky. "That pin was right under my nose, and I totally missed it. Now I feel even stupider than before."<p>

"No, don't worry about it," said Roy. "It's definitely easy to overlook things that are right under your nose, especially if you aren't looking for the right thing, or if you don't even know to look."

_And ain't that the truth_, thought Johnny, as they packed up their gear and headed back to the squad. They climbed back in the squad, and called in as heading to Rampart for supplies, as C-shift had not had time to restock since their run was at the end of the shift.

Johnny wrote the run report while Roy was driving, and had it completed before they even arrived at Rampart. He was in the habit of muttering to himself as he completed reports, so Roy ignored Johnny's mumblings, and just drove.

Once Johnny had put the triplicate form back inside the compartment of the forms clipboard, though, Roy tuned in again, even though it seemed like Johnny was still talking to himself.

"Right under my nose. Hot damn!" He grinned to himself, drumming on the dash of the squad.

"Yeah, we did get him out pretty easily."

"Huh?"

"The victim?" reminded Roy.

"What _are_ you talking about, Roy?" Johnny asked impatiently.

_Oh, boy. La-la land time. _"Never mind, Johnny; never mind."

They arrived at Rampart to resupply. Dixie was on shift at the ER nurses' station.

"Hello, gentlemen," she said. "How was your camping trip?"

"Oh, just fine, Dix, thanks for asking," said Roy, as he poured coffee for himself and Johnny.

Johnny goggled at him. "Just _fine_? Are you joking? It was _amazing_! There was this great swimming hole, and we had campfires every night, and we caught tons of fish, and it was just _perfect_!"

"We had some rain here in L.A. Did you get bothered by any of that?" asked Dixie.

"Nah, it wasn't a problem at all. Kind of nice, actually," Johnny said, grinning.

Roy rolled his eyes. "We all got soaked, except Gage and Stoker, who were bunking in Chet's van."

Dixie looked thoughtful. "Stoker, Stoker … he's the one who dislocated his shoulder at that brush fire a few weeks ago, right? Tall fellow, gorgeous blue eyes, talks a lot?"

"Um, Dix, he's the quiet one at the station," said Johnny. "But the rest you got just right." _Yeah, those eyes. Mm-hm_.

"No, I must be thinking of someone else," said Dixie. "This guy was impossible to shut up. He talked nonstop when Kel and I were taking out the cactus spines. He just thought the whole thing was really funny, and he kept wanting to see if you would come in and help, Johnny. We had to explain to him about ten times that you and Roy were out on a run."

"No, that was Stoker, all right," said Roy. "He hardly ever says a thing, but as soon as that MS hit his system, he was totally motormouthing."

Johnny giggled, nearly choking on his coffee, remembering what Mike had told him about his ambulance ride with Roy. "Man, I really wish I coulda been a fly on the wall in that ambulance."

_No, you really don't,_ thought Roy. "Junior, take it from me: sometimes it's better just to miss things like that," said Roy.

"Well, whatever, Roy. Look, I'm gonna go grab some food from the cafeteria—I'm starved. You mind packing up the supplies? I'll grab you something too if you want," said Johnny. He just didn't seem to be able to keep a huge grin off his face. He knew he looked ridiculous, but he just couldn't help it.

"Sure, go ahead. I don't need anything from the cafeteria, though."

Johnny trotted down the hallway, as Roy started going through the supplies list and filling a box.

"_What_ is going on with _him_?" asked Dixie, curiously.

"Search me, Dix. He's been acting goofy all morning. He won't say a thing, but station speculation is that he had a really hot date last night. Funny thing is, though, that he didn't say anything during the whole trip about having a hot date lined up for when we got back. And not only will he not say a thing about it, but he asked me maturely and politely to let it be."

Dixie smiled. "Well, maybe our little boy is growing up."

Roy snorted. "That'll be the day. He's gonna be chasing skirts till they go out of style."

Roy hushed up as Johnny came around the corner, carrying two wrapped cheeseburgers and a large chocolate shake.

"Um, Johnny? It's ten in the morning," said Roy. "That looks like lunch, to me."

"So? I was up early, so my stomach says it's lunch time."

"Early. See?" Roy said to Dixie, as if Johnny were not standing right in front of them.

"Well, I'm gonna stay out of this, and let you boys get back to work," said Dixie, signing off on the supplies form. _Yep, something definitely going on, there._

Johnny and Roy hopped back in the squad. "Squad 51, available and returning to quarters," Johnny called in on the radio. He unwrapped one of the burgers, and started chowing down, silently. Every so often, he stopped chewing and smiled to himself, staring off into space.

Roy just couldn't help himself. "So, you got plans with … whoever … tomorrow?"

Johnny's face lit up. "Yeah, Roy, I do. We've got the whole day."

"Hm, so you'll probably miss the game on TV in the afternoon then. That's all right – I'll fill you in."

"Nah, we talked about it last night—I'm pretty sure we'll catch it. Three o'clock kickoff, right?"

Roy's mind boggled. "Man, I don't think I've ever gotten Joanne to watch a game for more than five minutes. How'd you end up with this incredibly hot date who likes football, too? Unbelievable."

"Yeah, Roy, that's a good word. Not really sure I believe it myself." Johnny finished his mid-morning lunch on the way back to the station, silently, but looking very pleased with himself.

~!~!~!~

As soon as Johnny and Roy returned to the station, Chet practically yanked Roy into Cap's office.

"So?" Chet demanded.

"Whaddaya mean, 'so?'" asked Roy.

"Didja get anything out of him, or not, DeSoto?"

Roy sighed. "Give it up, Kelly. He's not talking. _And_ he's being an adult about it. So just forget it, all right?"

"Fine, fine," grumbled Kelly. "I'll just have to drag it outta him myself, then."

Roy frowned at Chet. "Chet, I think this is really not a good thing to needle him about, okay? Can you possibly lay off?"

Chet shook his head. "No way, DeSoto. I've got five bucks riding on this, with Jackson, remember?"

Roy reached into his hip pocket for his wallet. "I'll give you five bucks to let it drop. Then you lose the bet graciously, and that's the end of it, all right?"

"Ten bucks," Chet said instantly.

"Uh-uh, you leech. Five. And this is a favor to you, really, 'cause you're gonna lose either way."

"All right, all right," said Chet. "Fork it over."

Roy passed him a crisp fiver, just as Captain Stanley walked in.

"Out, Kelly," he said, already having divined who the instigator was of … whatever this was.

"Yessir, Cap," said Kelly, "just heading to work on lunch."

The two older members of the shift watched Kelly leave the office.

"DeSoto, what the _hell_ is going on in my station this morning?" Cap asked.

Roy looked at him sheepishly. "Well, Gage was acting weird, so Chet decided Johnny'd had a really hot date last night, and has been needling him the whole morning. Chet bet Jackson five bucks that he'd make Johnny spill his guts before the end of the shift, so I was just paying Chet off so he'd quit bugging Johnny."

Cap considered this. He'd called Mike's house the previous evening after dinner, just to check up on him, and Johnny had answered the phone. There was nothing odd about that, in and of itself—Johnny had been helping Mike earlier in the day, and maybe they were just hanging out later. But Gage hadn't said a thing about having a date planned for the night after the camping trip, and that certainly wasn't like him. Plus, it would have to have been a date that started pretty late. But stranger things had happened, and it did seem like young single folks were keeping later and later hours. The whole date scenario just didn't seem likely to Cap, though.

"Well, I think he's just playing with you guys," said Cap. "I don't think he went anywhere last night."

"I dunno, Cap; he's been acting awfully goofy all morning. Plus, he was in early. Nobody's ever in early, except you and Stoker."

"Gage? Goofy? Now _that's_ not really so unusual, you know," Cap replied.

"Yeah, Cap, but you should've seen him during chores. He kept stopping what he was doing, staring off into space, grinning like an idiot. Not his normal 'goofy,' which is talking a mile a minute about some crazy plan or idea or another."

"Well, as long as it doesn't get in the way of his work, let's just appreciate the silence, shall we?" said Cap.

"Amen to that, Cap."

"STATION 51, MOTOR VEHICLE ACCIDENT, WITH INJURIES, 405 SOUTHBOUND AT ALAMEDA. TIME OUT: 1123."

"So much for silence," said Roy, running out to the squad.

Johnny was already in his seat in the squad, ready to roll. They arrived at the scene within three minutes. The accident involved two vehicles, both with several occupants. Only one person, luckily, had sustained serious injuries—the driver of one of the cars had a severed artery that was spurting blood alarmingly. Roy dealt with that man swiftly, while Johnny assisted and then checked over the other occupants. Roy rode in with the victim in the ambulance, while Johnny followed in the squad.

Johnny arrived at the hospital, and was met by Dixie at the nurses' station.

"Roy said to tell you he's grabbing a shower and a change of clothes. He got pretty gory," said Dixie.

"Yeah, Dix—I was there. How's the guy doing?"

"Oh, the vascular surgeon's got him upstairs already, and we're transfusing him as we speak, so he'll probably do just fine. Good thing you guys got there as soon as you did, though."

"Yeah," said Johnny. "Too bad more people don't know basic first aid, too. He was just sittin' there, spurting away, when we got there. A little direct pressure would've done him a world of good."

"Mm hm," said Dix. "Well, maybe we can get the mayor to declare October to be Arterial Bleeding Awareness Month."

Johnny hardly seemed to notice Dixie's joke. "Hey, Dix," he said, "I'll be in the lounge, okay? Gotta make a phone call."

"Okay, I'll send Roy your way."

Johnny turned the corner to the staff lounge, and was disappointed to see that there were several staff in the room. There went his chance for a brief chat with Mike. He settled for a cup of stale lounge coffee, and sat on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, and his mind immediately went elsewhere. People came and went from the lounge, but the faraway look in Johnny's eyes, and the slight smile, and the hint of a blush—they were constant. Roy found him this way after emerging clean and unbloodied from the staff locker room, where all the paramedics kept a change of uniform for occasions such as this.

Roy sat down on the couch next to Johnny, just to see what would happen. Nothing. He got up again, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat next to his junior partner once more. Still nothing. Roy watched in amusement as Johnny closed his eyes, still smiling to himself.

Roy decided to try a wicked little experiment.

"Johnny," he whispered, as quietly as he could.

"Mm hmm?" Johnny replied languidly, eyes still closed.

_Good grief. _Roy decided it was perhaps not prudent to continue this experiment. He took the now-cold cup of coffee from his partner's hand, and placed it on the table.

"Squad 51, available," Roy said loudly into the radio, right next to Johnny.

Johnny's eyes snapped open. "Uh, hey Roy." He blushed deeply. "Um, did you say something before?"

"Not a thing," Roy lied innocently.

"Uh, did I say anything back to you when you didn't say anything?"

_Now _that's_ more like the Johnny I know._ "Here we go, more crazy talk … c'mon, let's go back to the station for lunch."

~!~!~!~

The rest of the daylight hours of the shift were mercifully light. The engine got called out for a dumpster fire, the squad had a possible heart attack, and the whole station had a run that turned out to be a false alarm. Captain Stanley went over all the new trouble spots in their district. After dinner, Johnny was exhausted from cumulative sleep deprivation, so he decided to turn in early. He carried his bundle of boots and pants over to the dorm area.

He was about to pass the desk, with the lamp and the phone, and stopped. Why not, he thought. The rest of the guys were watching a movie on TV, so he had the dorm to himself. He closed the door between the dorm and the locker room, set his gear down next to the desk, and dialed Mike's number.

"_Hello_?"

"Hey, it's Johnny."

"_Hi! Watcha doin'_?"

"Turning in early. For some reason, I can hardly stay awake."

Mike laughed softly over the line. "_Yeah, me neither. I think I fell asleep during the six o'clock news._"

Easy silence.

"_I wanted to talk to you all day, but I was pretty sure it'd be stupid to call the station and ask for you,"_ said Mike.

"Yeah, this is the first chance I had to call."

"_Lemme guess: everyone's watching the Saturday Night Movie, and you're sitting at the desk in the dorms, in your shorts and t-shirt, and your boots and pants are right where someone will trip over them if they come through the door._"

Johnny looked at where he'd put his gear, and laughed—Mike was spot on. He stretched the phone cord to grab the bundle of gear and pull it out of the doorway. "Yep. You've got my number."

"_How's the shift so far?_"

"Okay—busy enough, but nothing too grim. Roy got bled all over by a gusher, but the guy's gonna make it."

"_Bleah—good thing I wasn't there._"

"Hey, Dixie asked after you. Referred to your "gorgeous blue eyes" and asked if you were the one who talks all the time."

Mike laughed. "_Yeah, I think I talked nonstop the whole time she and the doc were pulling those cactus spines._"

Johnny decided not to go into the details about the guys' bets on what was making him so happy. He sat watching the dorm doorway, to make sure nobody was in earshot. "Yeah, I remember that afternoon—Roy was acting really weird after we brought you and Cap in. He let me check on Cap, but practically tackled me to keep me out of the treatment room you were in, till we finally got called back to the brush fire."

Mike laughed. "_Well, I was completely high, and I'd just pretty much told him I had a huge crush on you, so I think he thought he was doing us a favor._"

"Yeah, prob'ly."

"_So … I've been doing my fair share of daydreaming today, Gage. Lady behind me in the supermarket ran her cart right into me when I stopped dead in the aisle. All your fault, of course. You holdin' up okay_?"

"Heh. Roy just thinks I'm acting bizarre, but, well, he's right, and he's not needling me about it or anything. Chet thinks I had a hot date, but I just told him to lay off. Everyone's ignoring him."

"_And did you?_"

"Did I what?"

"_Have a hot date?_"

"Never hotter, babe." Through the glass pane in the door, Johnny saw a figure approaching the dorms. Roy. "Um, it looks like Roy wants a turn with the phone—I gotta go."

"_Okay. Before you turn in, though, one last thing—be sure to think about everything we did last night, and this morning, 'cause tomorrow morning when you come off shift? I'm gonna be waiting for you in your bed, and we have some things we have to catch up on._"

"Oh, great, thanks a lot. Now I have to go get a cold shower," Johnny grinned. He almost hoped Roy heard that last bit.

"_Enjoy! See you in the morning_."

"'kay. Don't worry if I'm late; you know how these things go."

"_Come back safe_," Mike said quietly.

"I will. Bye." And with that, Johnny grabbed his gear and headed for the shower. "All yours, Roy."

"Thanks—where ya goin', Junior? I thought you were done in."

"Just grabbing a shower before I turn in." Johnny made a hasty exit.

_Uh huh, and I'll bet there'll be plenty of hot water left when you're done, too_. Roy shook his head, grinning, and picked up the phone to make his nightly call to Joanne.

~!~!~!~

At lights out, the other five crew members found Johnny sound asleep, with bright orange earplugs shutting out the noise of the movie they'd been watching.

"Aaw, lookit Gage, sleepin' like a baby," said Chet. "That just brings out the Phantom in a big way. Whaddaya think, Marco? Bungee cord him to the bed? Hand in warm water?"

Johnny chose that moment to roll over, hug his pillow to his chest, and mutter something unintelligible to it, smiling in his sleep.

Chet sputtered, trying to contain his laughter. "Oh, man! This is priceless! I've just gotta know who that pillow is!"

"Kelly!" warned Cap. "What are you, twelve? Bunk! Now!"

"Yes, Cap, whatever you say, Cap." Kelly reluctantly trundled off to his bed.

The night was quiet—until the tones sounded at a quarter to four.

"SQUAD 51, POSSIBLE HEART CASE, 1245 8th STREET, 1-2-4-5 8th STREET. CROSS STREET MAPLE. TIME OUT: 0347."

Johnny and Roy jumped into their pants and boots, and headed to the squad for their jackets.

"This time of night, it's probably the real thing, ain't it," Johnny said, as they arrived at their destination and unloaded their equipment.

"Yeah, that's how it tends to be," agreed Roy.

Sure enough, their patient was a middle-aged, obese man, who had been up all night with what he had convinced his wife was heartburn, until she was awoken—fortunately—by the sound of him collapsing in the bathroom.

The team of paramedics made quick work of stabilizing their patient, and Johnny rode in with him to the hospital as Roy brought the squad in. They transferred their patient to the care of Mike Morton, and headed back to the station at nearly 0500.

"Man, this is about my least favorite time to get a call," complained Johnny. "It's too early to just get up and stay up, but too late to get any real sleep before the morning wake-up tones."

"Well, at least we had a quiet night. Personally, I'm just gonna stay up."

"Yeah," sighed Johnny, "I guess I will too. Besides, I went to bed so early I actually got a half-decent amount of sleep anyhow." _For a change._

Roy grinned, but kept his eyes on the road. "You sure did have a lot to say to your pillow last night," he commented mischievously.

Uh-oh. "Uh, what'd I say?" _Hopefully no names..._

"Oh, nothing I could really understand, but it sure sounded like you were having good dreams." Roy glanced over at his partner, and was amused by the pinkish tinge to his face.

"Well," Johnny said, "you know. Date and all. Kinda hard to not think about it."

"So you have the whole day today, huh? What's the plan?"

Johnny grinned. "Oh, there might be someone at my place already when I get home after shift … let's put it that way."

"Wow," said Roy. "You did the whole key thing already?"

"Yep," Johnny said smugly. "We exchanged keys this morning. And now, Roy, I am completely done talking about this. Finito."

"All right, all right," said Roy. "I'll just have to wait, won't I?"

"Patience, Roy; patience," Johnny said serenely.

"That's a fine thing, coming from you, partner."

"Live and learn, Roy."

BEEP BEEP BEEP! "SQUAD 51, MAN INJURED IN FALL. 2358 DUMONT, 2-3-5-8 DUMONT, CROSS STREET PARKER. TIME OUT: 0513."

"I guess fate has decided we're gonna stay awake. Take a left here, Roy."

The patient turned out to be an elderly man who had tripped over his equally elderly dog's leash when taking the hound out for an early morning walk. It appeared the man had broken his hip, so it took some time to stabilize him and make him comfortable enough to transport.

They resupplied at Rampart, got some free coffee, and headed back to the station by 0630.

"Hey, let's stop somewhere and get breakfast for the guys," said Johnny. "There's jack diddly in the station to eat, and I for one am starved."

"Sure—we could grab some donuts and rolls at the bakery down the road from the station," said Roy. Something really _had _come over Johnny—thinking of other people's stomachs instead of just his own.

They did their errand, and arrived at the station just in time to hear Chet complaining about how there was nothing decent for breakfast.

"Have no fear, Gage is here!" announced Johnny, plunking two boxes of bakery goods onto the table in the day room.

Everyone stared at him, jaws agape. Johnny unselfconsciously grabbed a danish from the box, poured himself a glass of milk, and sat down at the table.

"What's the catch?" asked Chet, eyeing the donuts and pastries suspiciously.

Captain Stanley eyed the entire situation suspiciously. Every man on this shift had been acting oddly the entire shift. Except Jackson, who he didn't know well enough to judge.

"The catch is, Chet, that there _is_ no catch. Unless you count whoever's snared my young partner, here," said Roy, working on a cinnamon roll.

"What in the world are you all going on about?" said Cap, who had not been privy to the teasing and betting about Gage's Friday night endeavors.

Chet couldn't resist it, though. "Oh, Gage had some reaaallly hot date on Friday night, and he's been acting totally goofy all day."

"What are you talking about, Chet? He didn't have a date, right Gage? He was at …" Cap stopped suddenly, as he noticed Johnny suddenly get a deer-in-the-headlights look.

Johnny had forgotten, until just then, that Cap had called Mike's house late in the evening, and that Johnny himself had answered the phone.

"He was at what, Cap?" prodded Chet.

Cap didn't have any idea what the problem was, but he glanced at Johnny, who looked like he was about to throw up. He had been tipping his chair back on two legs, but froze mid-tip. Whatever the hell was going on, Hank Stanley decided he just plain didn't want to get involved.

"He was at the park with all of us all week, and he never said anything about a date. He's just messing with you guys." Cap grabbed a danish and fled to his office. "Four on the floor, Gage," he said, just to say something normal on his way out.

Johnny obeyed Cap's instructions, thunking the front legs of his chair back to the floor. It was a relief to be on solid ground, actually. But everyone had turned to look at him.

"Good work, Gage. You really had me going," said Chet. "You should consider a career in acting."

Marco and Jackson slapped Johnny on the back, thinking he'd really pulled a good one on Chet.

Roy didn't say anything at all.

TBC 


	4. Sunday

**Invisible Minority**

**Chapter 4: Sunday**

B-shift began arriving as the A-shift crew were still sitting around the day-room table working on the boxes of breakfast pastries Johnny and Roy had brought in.

"Hey, Rollins! You live pretty near Hollywood—got any extra Oscars kicking around?" Chet asked, as B-shift's engineer walked in.

"The hell are you talking about, Kelly?" Rollins grabbed a donut and flopped down into a chair, as three other B-shift guys walked in and sat down as well.

Chet waved a roll at Johnny. "Gage here just pulled a shift-long gag on us—acting like he had a smokin' hot date Friday night, but not sayin' a thing about it the whole shift. I could have _sworn_ he had that just-got-laid look yesterday morning, but it turns out it was all a hoax."

"How do you know it was a hoax?" Rollins asked reasonably. "Maybe that's all part of the gag too," he continued, as if Johnny were not sitting right there.

"Nah," said Chet. "Cap set us straight. Ya know we were all camping for our four days off? Well, Cap reminded us that Gage didn't say one word about a hot date for Friday night. Can you imagine John Gage _not_ running off at the mouth about some hot chick he had lined up for the night after the camping trip? I mean, c'mon!"

Rollins looked dubiously at Johnny. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he said around a mouthful of donut. "Still, he could've picked a girl up at a club or something, and then got lucky."

Chet beamed at this thought. "That's IT! That _must_ be it! 'Cause let me tell you, Rollins, this boy here _definitely_ got some Friday night, and probably yesterday morning too. I don't think anyone's _that_ good an actor."

Johnny sighed, weary of hearing his life and behavior discussed as if he were not sitting right there. He plopped his half-eaten (but fourth) pastry on his paper napkin, rolled it up, and chucked the whole mess in the garbage. "You guys are a bunch of infants," he said, as he headed to the locker room. "It's 0800. I'm outta here."

The four B-shift firemen, plus Chet, instantly turned to Roy.

"Well?" asked Rollins.

"Gage is right. You're infants."

"Oh, lighten up, DeSoto. You dealt with him the whole shift—whaddaya think?"

"I think," said Roy, "that it's none of our business." He slid his chair back. "Have a safe shift." Roy headed to the locker room, where he found Johnny already in his civvies.

"Didn't say a thing," said Roy. "Have a great day."

"You better believe it, Roy. You too. And thanks for not playing their stupid game."

Johnny headed out to the parking lot, and stood by the Rover.

_Cap_.

Cap knew he was at Stoker's yesterday evening. Cap decided not to say that to the guys.

Either Cap was trying not to get sucked into the games, or … _shit_.

Johnny had an idea. He threw his bag into the Rover, and headed back into the station, through the front door that led straight to the shared Captains' office. The door was open. Captain Stanley was just on his way out.

"Hey Cap. Thanks for not playing along with the guys' stupid game. They were all needling me the whole shift, and I was getting pretty sick of it." _There. Suspicions neither confirmed, denied, nor acknowledged, but rescue appreciated._

"No problem, Gage. Bunch of twits, aren't they?"

"Nah, just Kelly, really. I don't know what gets into him sometimes," said Johnny.

"Well, what we do in our time off is none of anybody else's business. If a guy doesn't want to blab, I can respect that."

"Yeah. Well, thanks anyhow." Johnny cleared his throat. "You got plans with the family today?"

They continued their conversation as they headed out to the parking lot.

"Oh, I think we're all just gonna hang around the house. The girls were complaining that I took off for four days and then went right back to work, and everyone at home is tired and cranky, so no, no plans. How 'bout yourself?"

"Well, I don't know exactly what I'm gonna do today either, Cap. Just hang around, I think, since we're back on shift on Monday again."

"All right. Well, have a good one. See you tomorrow," said Cap, folding his lanky frame into the Delta 88.

Johnny sat down in the drivers' seat of the Rover, and mentally set the shift's stresses aside. It was time to go home. And, Mike was going to be there when he got home.

Johnny made a quick grocery stop on the way—a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, cold cuts, and he remembered Stoker drank orange juice, so he picked some of that up as well, since it was never something he kept around. Coffee, beer, ice cream, cookies—all the staples.

He was home by 8:45. Johnny grinned when he saw Mike's pickup truck in a parking space marked "visitor." He grabbed his duffel and the two bags of groceries, and dashed up the stairs to the outside corridor that his apartment door opened onto. He set down the bags, but before he could fit his key in the lock, the door opened.

"Hoped that might be you taking the stairs two at a time. Here, lemme get one of those." Mike hoisted a grocery bag with his good arm, and set it down in the hall. Johnny dropped his duffel and the other grocery bag next to it.

Johnny stepped toward Mike in the narrow foyer, till they were so close their toes touched. Johnny suddenly drew in a deep, gasping breath, almost like a sob, and pulled Mike's face to his, kissing him soundly. Mike responded instantly to Johnny's need, pulling him close and holding him tightly.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he whispered.

"I'm just … really glad to see you."

"Bad shift?" Mike stroked Johnny's hair, and added a quick, gentle kiss to the first one.

"No," said Johnny, "pretty tame, actually. But, well, I guess I was pretty loopy—I mean, that was _quite_ a sendoff you gave me yesterday, Mike—and Kelly made a big deal about how I looked like I'd just gotten laid, and he pretty much needled me the whole shift."

"Yeah, he would, wouldn't he?" Mike pulled Johnny into the sparsely furnished living room and sat him on the couch. "So what'd you do?"

"I took an inscrutability lesson from you, and I didn't play his game."

"And DeSoto?" Mike knew that Roy and Johnny were close, and read each others' moods—and sometimes, it seemed, minds—easily.

"Oh, we made a deal. He wasn't allowed to keep asking, but he _was_ allowed to punch me in the arm if I was drifting off." Johnny grinned. "I think he hit me about fifty times." He rubbed his shoulder in memory of all the slugs Roy laid on him. "But enough about that. What'd you do yesterday?"

"As little as possible," Mike admitted. "Grocery store, of course. Mostly laid around reading, with a heating pad on my shoulder. It's a lot better today—I guess _maybe_ I was overusing it the last few days."

"Glad it's better—you see Brackett tomorrow, right?"

"Yep—0900."

"Good. He's a hard-ass, but he's the best." Johnny's look then shifted to mock-suspicious. "Hey," he said, "weren't you supposed to be in my bed when I got here?"

"Well," Mike admitted, "I kinda thought I'd get you fed first, and see how that shift was—maybe you were up all night and would need to just go straight to sleep, ya know."

"Hmm," said Johnny, "it was a quiet night, but it _has_ been almost an hour since station breakfast. Did you eat yet?"

"Nope—waiting for you."

They carried the groceries into the small kitchen area, and started unloading them. Johnny put the non-perishables in the cabinets, and then put all the cold things in the fridge, except for the chocolate ice cream, which he left out on the counter. He rummaged in a cabinet and brought out a box of Wheaties.

"Seriously?" Mike asked, eyeing the ice cream with raised eyebrows.

"What?" Johnny said, getting out two bowls. "Breakfast of Champions."

"With _chocolate ice cream_?" Mike pointed to the picture of the athlete on the front of the box. "I kind of don't think that's what Bruce Jenner had in mind."

Johnny shrugged. "Well, Brackett and Early are always on my case to gain some weight, you know, like for insurance, so that's my favorite breakfast these days."

Mike patted his own midriff. "Well, I've got a few pounds and _quite_ a few years on you, so forgive me if I just go for cereal and milk."

Johnny grabbed the milk out of the fridge and passed it to Mike. "You don't have all that many years on me, do you?"

"Yeah, Johnny, 'fraid I do. Hit thirty-three last month."

"So? That's not much older than me."

"Um, aren't you like twenty-five? And I only guess _that_ high because we've been at the same station for six years, and you weren't a boot, so you must've been around twenty when the station opened."

Johnny laughed. "Sorry, Mike, but I hit the big three-oh in May."

"You're shitting me," Mike declared confidently, fully expecting the remark to be the beginning of a Gage-special put-on.

"Nope." Johnny fished his wallet out of his pocket, and handed Mike his driver's license.

"Fuck me!" exclaimed Mike as he examined the document.

"Okay—after breakfast though." Johnny grinned and crunched his ice cream concoction contentedly.

"No, I mean—yes! But, you don't look a day over twenty." He looked Johnny over suspiciously. "You didn't lie to get into fire academy early, did you? This is your _real_ date of birth?"

"Geez." Johnny rolled his eyes, dug into his wallet again, and produced a much-folded photocopy. "Here. A copy of my birth certificate. Nobody ever believes me, so I carry this around too."

Mike shook his head. "And here I thought I was robbing the cradle." He worked on his cereal, standing in the kitchen. "Cap must know your actual age, though, right?"

"Yeah," said Johnny around a mouthful of ice cream cereal. "Why do you think he's always hollerin' at me to act it?"

As Mike handed back the documents, Johnny continued. "And that's why Roy calls me 'Junior' – it's kind of a joke between us, since when we first got to be buddies he started calling me that, and then when he realized I was only a couple months younger than him, and did this priceless apology, well, I just thought it was funny, so I said he oughta keep callin' me that for a laugh."

"I kinda wondered why you let him get away with that." Mike finished his cereal and put his bowl in the sink. "So, any other secrets I need to know about?"

Johnny pretended to think. "Nope—a bit older than I look, door swings both ways, I turn into a werewolf every full moon—I think we covered all the bases. How 'bout you?"

Mike had to laugh. "Well, you already know pretty much the only one there is. You, and Roy, and Serena, and her girlfriend—a very exclusive club. Oh, and my family, who mostly _wish_ they didn't know."

Johnny decided to save that last comment to talk about some other time. He added his bowl to the sink, turned on the hot water, and quickly washed up the breakfast dishes, as Mike dried them and put them away. He handed the towel to Johnny so he could dry off his hands.

"How can you look so hot just doing dishes?" Stoker said admiringly.

"Practice, Mike. Lots and lots of practice," Johnny replied. "But, when you put it _that_ way, maybe I _won't_ try to get better at cards so I can get out of KP at the station."

Breakfast was eaten, dishes were done, and there they were. They'd talked about meeting at Johnny's place in the morning, but hadn't really made plans for the day.

"So, what're your plans for the day, _Gage_?" Mike asked, grinning and leaning Johnny back against the fridge.

"Well, _Stoker_, first I would like to see you in my bedroom for a very private conference. After that? I dunno. It's kind of a crummy day for the beach, and the game's not till three, and I'm an apartment-dweller so there's nothing to build or destroy or anything fun like that..."

Mike pinned Johnny up against the fridge. "I only heard one word out of all that. Bedroom."

~!~!~!~

A delicious ninety minutes later, a wide-awake Mike gently held a quietly sleeping Johnny. _Too much coffee for me this morning_, thought Mike, _and no matter how easy your night calls were, Johnny, you still had 'em_.

They were spooned together, with Mike taking the part of the protective "big spoon," good arm tucked under and not-so-great left arm held closely to the sleeper's chest. While Mike held onto his sleeping lover, Mike's over-caffeinated mind mused on his time with Johnny. Even though they were about the same age, and about the same size—Johnny had an inch of height over Mike, but Mike had a good twenty pounds over Johnny—there was something that Mike couldn't quite put a name to, that made him feel protective towards Johnny.

This feeling was unexpected and a bit confusing to Mike. As a rescue man, Johnny was probably a good deal stronger than Mike; and as a paramedic, Johnny dealt with difficult calls every shift, and always came through strong. This was not a fragile person he was dealing with here, so he couldn't quite put his finger on where the strong feeling of protectiveness was coming from.

As Mike was thinking, Johnny stirred and mumbled, and pulled Mike's arm more tightly around him, clutching it to his chest. Mike responded by scissoring a leg over Johnny's, drawing him in more closely. Johnny sighed, and his breathing once again became deep and regular.

And there it was again. Johnny wasn't purposely giving him any signs of weakness or insecurity—he was asleep, for crying out loud—but that protective instinct had kicked in again, and Mike felt like he would be perfectly happy spending the rest of the day just holding Johnny, keeping him safe while he slept. In fact, there was nowhere he'd rather be.

And then it hit him.

_Oh. _

_Shit._

_Now I've done it. I've gone and fallen in love with my gorgeous, no-strings-wanted, skirt-chasing, commitment-avoidant shift-mate._

_Damn it._

They'd both said, back at the campground, that they didn't want this—whatever the hell "this" was—to be over when they got back to L.A. They'd both said, before they'd really let anything happen, that they "cared" —whatever _that_ meant. Mike had sort of thought it meant that, well, they acknowledged that if they did anything stupid or selfish, a friendship would be mightily screwed up, and shifts would be awkward.

But _this_, what Mike was thinking about now, was surely not what Johnny had meant.

_I'll let him sleep_, thought Mike, _and then I'll explain why I have to go. Calmly, like an adult. And then __I'll go home and bawl my eyes out. You're a fuckin' idiot, Stoker. _

Mike let Johnny sleep for a little while, and pondered what he'd gotten himself into, and would now have to get himself out of. He held onto Johnny, for a long, long time, allowing himself, perhaps foolishly, to enjoy what he was sure would be the last time he'd do so. Without meaning to, he dozed off.

~!~!~!~

When Mike woke, he went from heaven to hell in ten seconds flat, first remembering with glee whose warm body was next to his, and then recalling why he had to get himself out of this mess, and fast.

It was nearly 11:30, and Mike personally wouldn't want to sleep any later than noon on a day where he had a shift the next morning, so he was contemplating waking Johnny up. The idea of staying in the bed, though he found it partly appealing and partly pathetic, was becoming unrealistic, as Mike's bladder kept reminding him. Finally, he quietly extricated himself from Johnny's clutches, and made it to the bathroom without waking Johnny.

After finishing his necessary business, he decided he might as well get dressed. He really needed a shower, but, after all, if he was throwing himself out, he ought to be ready to go. He quietly found all his items of clothing where they lay in the bedroom, and put them on. He briefly thought about just leaving a note and fleeing, but no, if you're dumping someone because you're falling for them and that's not what they want—hell, no matter _why_ you're dumping someone you actually like—that's not how to do it.

Mike had brought the morning paper, so he sat in the living room and tried to read it. He got nowhere. Coffee? No, too addled already. With great maturity, Mike decided just to sit and brood.

_I should probably put in for a transfer now, _he thought._ It might even go through by the time I'm certified fit for duty. Yep—won't even have to say anything to Cap other than that the commute is killing me, what with gas prices the way they are. That new guy who's been filling in for me will be happy to be permanent. And what with the Captain's exams coming up soon, there oughta be plenty of vacancies for engineers in the near future. No problem. _

Mike's preferred brooding posture was elbows on knees, head in hands. _Very pathetic looking,_ he thought, _but who cares. That's the way it is. Pathetic._

And that's how Johnny found him, when he emerged, bleary-eyed, clad in boxers but with nothing else back on.

"Hey, there you are. For a minute I almost thought you took off." Johnny sat down next to Mike on the saggy, second-hand couch.

Mike didn't look up. "I almost did take off,' he said, head still in hands.

Johnny froze. "What?"

"I said, I almost did take off." Mike finally looked up.

"Why? I mean, what'd I do? I mean … I don't know what I mean." Johnny looked intently at Mike, but didn't reach out physically.

"Johnny, you're—I'm—well, you …" Mike sighed. "I don't think we want the same things."

Johnny remained silent, not sure what to add or ask. He just wanted to hear Mike out, but he had a sinking feeling he knew what was coming. _And here I thought things were going great for a change._

Mike summoned his courage. "I know we both said we care about what happens, which I guess means we don't want to make any trouble, don't want things to get awkward—at least I think that's what we both said—so, I guess, to not let it get awkward, I better just go."

Johnny sat still. _Yep, that's what I thought was coming_. He sighed, and looked away. "Every time, Mike. This happens _every_ _single_ _time_. When I start to pull someone towards me instead of pushing them away, it turns out that's not what they want after all, even though I kinda thought you maybe did, and then that's it—they're outta here."

He went on, not making eye contact, so not noticing Mike's gaping jaw. His fists were clenched so tightly on the couch cushions that his knuckles were going gray. "Honestly, I didn't think the same thing would happen with you—that wasn't the feeling I was getting from you. I thought maybe—just _maybe_—this time I could fall in love with someone, and they would—"

"_What?" _Mike interrupted.

_Great, now I've really done it. Note to self: don't say the "L" word when you're getting dumped. _"Sorry, Mike, but that's how it is." Johnny looked up, finally, and was shocked to see Mike grinning like a pig in a trough of slop. Mike began to chuckle, and within seconds, was outright laughing.

_O … kay … _

"Geez, Mike, you don't have to laugh at me. I'm feeling pathetic enough already." Johnny shook his head in disgust.

"Oh … my … god," Stoker managed, not quite able to catch his breath.

"I bare my soul, and you think it's _funny_?" Johnny practically shouted.

Realizing he'd totally lost it, and was on the verge of completely screwing everything up even worse than he already had, Mike put every ounce of his being into pulling himself together. "I'm sorry. It's not funny; I'm sorry, babe. Fuck, Johnny, I was ready to run off because _I _was falling in love with _you_, and I didn't think that was up your alley."

Silence. The scowl slowly disappeared from a certain paramedic's face. "Seriously?"

"Like ice cream and Wheaties—unbelievable, but totally for real."

"Ya know, you just about gave me a heart attack," he complained. "When did I start sending mixed messages, anyhow? Honest to god, Stoker, where'd I give you the wrong idea?"

Stoker sat silently, eyes squinted, brows furrowed. Johnny sat patiently, holding Mike's hand in both his own, as Mike tried to reconstruct his train-wreck of thought.

"Um. Nowhere?" Mike concluded tentatively.

Johnny rolled his eyes. "Okey dokey, then, how'd this near-disaster happen?"

"Uh, caffeine and brooding, not talking, uh, anxiety-prone brain—put 'em together and you get Mr. Insecurity, I guess." Mike looked down at their intertwined hands. "I was just lying there with you, holding you while you were sleeping, and thinking about how great everything was, and then these teensy little 'uh-ohs' started creeping in."

"We can _always_ talk," Johnny insisted. "_Always_."

"Nuh-uh, you were _sleeping_," protested Mike. "I'm not gonna bug you every time my anxiety lobe starts working overtime! That would be completely cra—"

"Reasonable," Johnny finished for him. "It would be completely _reasonable_, Mike. If you're circling the mental drain, and I'm not rappelling down the side of a building, or up to my elbows in someone's guts, or dragging someone out of a room that's about to flash over, you _talk_ to me, all right? And if I _am_ doing any of those things? You talk to me in five minutes. Deal?"

"Deal," Mike said meekly.

"Good. And vice versa. 'Cause I just can't _stand_ the not talking stuff. I mean, you remember that girl Valerie, a few years back, where I was thinking about marrying her, for cryin' out loud, and then it turned out she had these kids she'd never said diddly squat about? I can't _take_ that stuff, man. Shit hiding in the closet, waiting to pounce out at ya in the middle of the night?" Johnny shook his head. "Can't take it."

"Well, then, I'll do my best not to dish it out. I promise: there's no pouncing shit in my closet—just me in there, and you already know that part. And, I'll try, _really_ try hard, not to clam up."

"Great. Are we cool?" asked Johnny, picking up Mike's hand and kissing the back of it.

"We're cool." Mike finally smiled a little. "Well, at least I have a backup plan for life. If I ever bomb out of the department, I could get a job as an insecurity guard."

Johnny shook his head, smiling. "Where _do_ you come up with this crap?"

"Well, my mom always said she thought I had a whole extra lobe in my brain, dedicated exclusively to worrying and brooding," said Mike.

"I know a good neurosurgeon," Johnny said seriously. "Maybe you should have it removed."

"Wish I could, Johnny. Wish I could." Mike leaned his head on Johnny's bare shoulder.

They sat that way for a good couple of minutes, heads together, holding hands, till Mike broke the silence. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Johnny twisted so he was on his knees on the couch, straddling Mike's hips. He took Mike's face in his hands. "It's okay. But don't," he kissed Mike's forehead, "ever," one eyebrow, "ever," the other eyebrow, "Do. That. Again." And Johnny lingered at Mike's lips for long enough that Mike was sure he was forgiven completely.

~!~!~!~

They spent the time till kick-off reading the Sunday paper, never straying far from each other. They watched the game, like good sports fans, and found that commercials provided great make-out breaks. The game ended, and Mike and Johnny were lounged on the couch, Mike's head and shoulders cradled in Johnny's lap. Their team had lost, but they didn't care. But then, after spending the entire day inside, Johnny started to get antsy.

"Man, let's get outta here. I know it's crappy out, but I gotta get outta the house."

"Okay by me. Ideas?" Mike replied.

"What I really wanna do," grumbled Johnny, "is take you out and show you off. It's not fair," he complained.

"Nope. You're right, though—even though L.A. is big enough to lose a whole 'nother city in, you and I can't go out together—and I mean of course Together with a capital 'T'—and still expect to have a job in the morning."

"We can go eat somewhere, I guess, but we have to act like—"

"Like two co-workers grabbing a bite, and not like two people out on a date," Mike finished for him. "It's a bitch of a game."

Johnny sat silently for a few moments. "Hey, Mike?"

"Mm?"

"Along those lines—I think maybe Cap knows there's something goin' on."

Mike blew out a long breath. "Yeah, I wondered about that, after you picked up when he called on Friday. Was he weird at all yesterday?"

"Well, he stayed out of the 'did Gage get laid' game—he always steers clear of that crap—but he almost, not quite, but _almost_, said he knew I was at your place on Friday."

"Um, how do you know what he _almost_ said if he didn't _say_ it?" Mike asked reasonably.

"Well, what happened was, at the end of the shift, Kelly was goin' on and on with the guys about tryin' to figure out who my hot date was on Friday, and Cap walks right in, and he goes somethin' like 'he couldn't've had a date, 'cause he was at—' … and he stopped there."

"Shit—then what?"

"Then Chet goes, 'at what, Cap?' And then Cap looked right at me, and then said, 'at the campground,' and something about how if I'd had a date lined up for after the camping trip, wouldn't I have been blabbing about it the whole week. And then he hightailed it back to his office."

"Hm," considered Mike. "You say anything to him?"

"Well, I couldn't just not say anything, cause that would've been weird, so I just said thanks for not buying into the guys' games all shift." He paused. "I don't know what he's thinkin'—I mean, maybe he really thought I was intentionally puttin' one over on Chet, and didn't wanna mess it up—but I'm pretty sure he doesn't think I went out with some chick on Friday."

"Okay," said Mike. "If he's somehow figured something out—which I doubt, actually—we'll deal."

Johnny sighed. "How?"

"Well," Mike said seriously, "I think maybe, before I come back to work, we should just tell him the truth."

Johnny froze. "No way. We'll get booted outta the department."

"Not if Cap doesn't say anything. And I don't think he's the type. I mean, he volunteered you and Roy to take on that woman paramedic, right? And then there was that time we worked a brush fire, and there was a volunteer company with two female firefighters, and he chewed out one of L.A. County's less fine examples of humanity for givin' them a hard time—don't think you were there for that, but it was pretty cool."

"Huh," said Johnny. "Musta missed that one." He rubbed his face. "I still dunno, Mike, if we oughta just flat out tell him. I mean, even if he doesn't freak out, it puts him in an awkward position."

"What's the alternative?" said Mike. "If he knows, and we don't say anything, and then we're working together, and we keep on not telling him, that's maybe worse than if we say something and he _didn't_ know."

Johnny didn't say anything for a while. Then, very quietly, he did. "I'll put in for a transfer."

Mike reacted instantly. "Are you crazy? You have the best assignment you could hope for! I mean, the station is a mile from here, and you and Roy are the best team, and—well, geez, we haven't even figured out yet how it'll be if we're on shift together. Might be okay, ya know."

"Maybe."

"Besides, if anyone transfers, it oughta be me. But I still think we should tell Cap, Johnny."

Johnny scowled. "Let's think about it, okay? I mean, he always says what we all do on our own time is our business, right? And I'm serious, that it would put him in a bad position to know anything about this."

"Okay," said Mike. "All right. Let's just keep quiet for now."

"Okay." Johnny was still scowling, and Mike didn't like to see that. He reached around and put his hand on the back of Johnny's neck, and kissed him lightly, and remained right there, forehead on Johnny's cheekbone.

"I think," Mike said, "we just survived our first fight."

Johnny smiled, finally. "_That_ was a _fight_?"

"Well, Stoker-style," admitted Mike. "Quiet. Understated."

Johnny's stomach growled audibly.

"Saved by the belly, huh?" Johnny said. "C'mon, let's go out and grab some grub. And I promise, I'll try not to grope you under the table." He helped Mike off the saggy sofa. "Very much."

**TBC**


	5. Complications

A/N: The people around Johnny and Mike are smart. Things start to get complicated. This chapter is long, because I just didn't want to break up its theme. Enjoy! And as always, I love knowing what people think, and as always, constructive criticism is appreciated.

**Invisible Minority**

**Chapter 5: Complications**

Johnny skidded into the station on Monday morning with just enough time to change before being officially late for roll call. By 0805 he and Roy were on dorms again, just as on the last shift.

"So, Johnny," said Roy, after they had been assigned their chores for the day, "what happened to that new leaf you turned over?"

"Huh? Oh, you mean being real early. Well, I was at my own place this morning, so I guess I was just following my own habits. You know—_my_ alarm clock, _my_ breakfast ..."

"I see you're still grinning like an idiot, though," said Roy. "I guess you had a good day off?"

"Yep—pretty stellar. Even survived our first fight. How 'bout you? How're Joanne and the kids? Haven't seen them for a while, what with one thing and another."

"Oh, they're good. Kids were asking after you. Think you could tear yourself away from, um, whatever her name is, for dinner at our place Friday night? Or, better yet, bring her along? I _can_ keep my trap shut, you know," said Roy.

Johnny plunked himself down onto the bunk he'd just stripped, and sighed heavily. "Roy, ya gotta trust me on this—there's a real good reason why I'm not ready to do Show and Tell. It's not that I don't trust you, or anything. It's just—well, it's a bit of a tricky situation. We … I just can't say anything right now, okay?"

Roy was developing a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Please tell me you're not seeing a married woman."

"No!" Johnny said. "I mean, yes, I can tell you that, because it's not like that at all. Nobody's … cheating, or anything like that. Okay?"

"Okay," said Roy, "but you're killing me here."

"Killing _you_? What about Chet?" Johnny laughed out loud. "He's been moping around all morning, 'cause I _still_ won't bite!"

"Chet? Well, I think The Phantom is getting some mighty good payback here. I'm pretty impressed with how little you're letting him get to you, Johnny."

Johnny sniffed. "Yeah, well, let's just say I really, really care a whole lot less about what he's thinking and how much he's needling me than I do about what's going on in my real life. For the first time, Roy—I just really don't care what he says. 'Cause it just doesn't matter."

"Good for you, Johnny. That's really good." _Guess maybe Dix was right—our little boy _is_ growing up, _Roy thought.

"Okay, partner, let's get busy here. Then we oughta go stock up at Rampart—looks like B-shift musta had a lotta runs, 'cause I took a quick peek at the squad and the cupboards are fairly bare," said Johnny.

"Huh," said Roy. "You should've said, right away. We oughta just go now, and leave the dorms till later, if Cap doesn't mind. Don't wanna be short of anything."

"Good point—I guess I'm still kinda distracted," Johnny said ruefully.

"Does that mean I still get to hit you today?"

"Yeah, but try the other arm for a change, will ya?"

They left everything in a heap. Johnny went to tell Cap they were short on supplies, and Roy went to do a real inventory of the squad.

"Yeah, we pretty much need to go straight to Rampart to resupply," Roy said to Johnny, after Johnny emerged from Cap's office. "Almost out of D5W, large-bore IV packs, and a whole bunch of other things besides."

"Uh-huh—Cap says they had a couple real big MVAs last shift, and that we have a backboard off the engine at Rampart too."

Roy slammed the compartment door shut, and hopped in the driver's seat.

Johnny grabbed the radio. "L.A., Squad 51, 10-7 to Rampart for critical resupply."

"_10-4, Squad 51._"

They arrived at Rampart, and headed straight for the nurses' station in the ER, where Dixie greeted them cheerfully.

"Well hello, boys," she said.

"Hey, Dix. Don't you ever have a day off?" asked Johnny.

"Hardly ever—I've been doing some subbing lately. Saving up for a new car," she admitted. "You fellas need some supplies, I'll bet."

"Yep." Roy handed her the list, and they got busy gathering the supplies. They quickly filled a cardboard box, and Dixie signed off on the inventory log. Roy watched Johnny's interaction with Dixie carefully—it couldn't possibly be her, but that would sure make him clam up in a hurry. It had to be something like that, though. Someone everybody in Johnny's life knew.

"Squad 51, 10-8 at Rampart," Johnny called in, putting the squad back in service.

"_10-4 Squad 51. L.A. clear, KME 941_."

"Hey, guys," said a quiet voice.

"Hey, Mike! Thought we might bump into you," said Johnny, grinning ear to ear.

"It's your lucky day, I guess," said Mike.

"Dix, you remember Mike Stoker, right?" said Johnny. "Last time you saw him, he had a hand loaded with cactus spines."

"Of course! Dislocated shoulder, too, if I recall. You must be Dr. Brackett's 9:00 appointment. He's not here yet," Dixie announced, "but he will be."

"Okay."

"Boys, why don't you take Mike here to the staff lounge—we don't make our favorite customers wait with the riff-raff," she explained to Stoker.

"Thanks, uh, Miss McCall," Stoker replied. "But I don't mind."

"Aw, c'mon, lemme show you where we shirk our responsibilities," said Johnny, steering Mike to the lounge. "You'll hate the coffee though."

"Yeah, you know how picky I am," said Mike, as he and Johnny disappeared into the lounge.

Dixie watched them go, as Roy closed up the box.

"Well, he's certainly going to be popular with the girls up in the physical therapy department," said Dixie. "Polite, charming, and easy on the eyes."

"Yeah, well, they're incredibly outta luck," said Roy.

"Oh, he's got a girlfriend? Too bad for the PT department." Dixie shook her head. "Oh, well. Say, on a related note, is Johnny still smitten with the Mystery Date?"

Roy nodded solemnly. "In a big way, Dix. Last shift, he was pretty dopey, but this shift, he seems a bit more relaxed. Chet—he's our station prankster—has been giving Johnny the full treatment, but Johnny's not giving an inch. I was actually thinking this morning that it must be someone here at Rampart, someone I know, which is why he won't tell me who she is. Anyhow—I'd better go load this stuff into the squad. Can you tell Johnny I'm out there when he resurfaces?"

"Sure, Roy. You two have a safe shift, and try not to bring us too many customers today, all right? Oh, and the backboard from your engine is right there by the door," Dixie pointed out. "I'll make sure Johnny grabs it on his way out."

Roy went back to the squad, put all the supplies in their appropriate places, and sat in the driver's seat. _Johnny must be off in la-la land again_, he thought. He could picture Stoker sitting stiffly and uncomfortably in the staff lounge, while Johnny stared off into space with that dopey grin on his mug. Roy sighed, unbuckled his seat-belt, and went back inside to fetch Johnny. _Rescue man, do your job, _he thought.

As he approached the staff lounge, Roy could hear peals of laughter. _Oh, boy, who's laughing at my dopey partner now_?

He opened the door just enough to stick his head in.

And he saw the source of the laughter, which couldn't have been farther from what he'd imagined: Stoker, convulsing with a bad case of the giggles.

"And then," said Johnny, "I opened my locker. And I was expecting somethin', of course, but not this. Okay, so I pull the door open, real slow, standing at the side like it's the door to a fully involved room, right? And as soon as the door opens, there's just this little click, and a hiss, and then there's the sound of all these little kids, and they're singin' 'Johnny's got a girlfriend, nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah, nyah,' over, and over …"

Stoker was doubled over on the couch. "Oh, shit, that's priceless! Was he watching? What'd you do?"

_Wow,_ thought Roy, _three complete sentences in a row._

"Yeah, he was right there, hiding in the next row of lockers. And all I did was just turn off the tape recorder, and hand it to him, and just walked back to my locker and calmly, quietly, got my uniform on, and _just_ made roll call. And the best part? Kelly was so upset that I didn't freak out that he was late for roll call, and got latrine duty!"

Roy watched, eyebrows creeping upwards, as Mike totally dissolved, taking Johnny with him into the giggles.

After a few seconds, they'd calmed themselves enough for Roy to feel like he could enter the room fully without getting sucked into whatever was going on. He didn't quite see what was so funny—he'd heard the whole prank as it happened first thing that morning, but, well, it was just silly.

Dixie had come up behind Roy, and was peering into the staff lounge with interest, wondering what was so funny. She went into the lounge along with Roy, and got a cup of coffee, more to give her a reason to stick around than because she was really dying for a cup of stale coffee.

"Uh, Johnny, we better hit the road," Roy reminded Johnny reasonably.

That did it. Mike and Johnny looked at each other and collapsed into hysterics again. Mike grabbed Johnny's arm, as if to try to hold himself upright. It didn't work.

"Oh, boy," Roy muttered to Dixie. "See what I mean?"

Dixie did indeed see what he meant, and also thought that perhaps she saw something that Roy had either missed or was avoiding seeing.

The radio beeped its three beeps to signal that a call was coming, and Johnny sobered up in a hurry. He handed his coffee to Mike, and leapt up, wiping tears from his face. "Good luck with Brackett, Mike. See ya!" He let Roy exit first, and when Roy was thoroughly out of view, Johnny angled himself so Dixie couldn't see him, and pointed to himself, then put a pretend phone to his ear, then pointed to Mike. Mike grinned, and shooed Johnny out of the lounge.

Roy grabbed the backboard on their way out, and loaded it into the long compartment in the back of the squad. He fired up the engine, as Johnny got out their map book and located the address of their call.

"Wow, Johnny, that was a pretty impressive display back there. I don't think I've ever seen Stoker lose it before," remarked Roy.

"Well, it _was_ pretty funny, Roy. Take the next right," he added.

"I guess … but still, Stoker hardly ever even cracks a grin, let alone … whatever _that_ was." Roy took a hard right, tires screeching. "Sorry."

They reached the address of their call, and went in to the house where L.A. dispatch had said there was a child trapped. They grabbed their extrication tools out of the squad, not knowing what they'd find in the house. A woman met them at the front door, and gestured them in.

"Miss, can you tell us what's happened?" asked Johnny, game face on solidly.

"Oh, Jason got his head stuck in the banister again, and this time I just can't get him out," the woman said anxiously.

Sure enough, a boy of about three was sitting halfway up the stairs, with his head protruding between two balusters.

"You gonna 'rest me?" the boy asked nervously.

"No, son, we're firemen. We're just gonna get you outta there, okay?" said Roy.

Roy and John tried all their usual tricks—and they had plenty, since they got a call like this about once a week. Nothing worked.

The woman could see they were at the bottom of their toolbox. "Go ahead, saw out a baluster," she said resignedly.

"I'm afraid that's the only option left, Miss," Roy agreed. Johnny ran back to the squad for a handsaw, which made short work of the baluster.

The boy popped his head out as soon as the baluster gave way. "Gee, thanks, mister firemen," he said, looking anxiously at his mother.

"Up to your room, Now!" ordered the woman. She turned to Roy. "Well, sorry to call you out for this, fellas, but I sure do appreciate your getting him out."

"No problem, miss, it's our job. I would suggest, though, that you attach some wire mesh to the inside of the railing until he's old enough to know better. It won't look great, but it beats sawing out any more balusters," said Johnny.

"Yes," said the woman, "I suppose my husband will agree with that. Now all I have to do is deal with the landlord," she sighed, as she ushered them out to the squad. "Thanks again!" she waved.

Roy and Johnny hopped into their customary seats, and the conversation picked up where it had left off before they reached the house.

"Just goes to show, Roy, everyone's got their funny bone—you just gotta know where it is," continued Johnny, as if their conversation hadn't been interrupted by the rescue.

"And how are _you_ an expert on Stoker's funny bone all of a sudden?" inquired Roy. "I didn't even know he _had_ one."

"It's subtle," Johnny said, "but it's there." He changed the subject, suddenly realizing he was treading on dangerous ground—dangerous ground that Roy didn't even know existed. "So our shift has the whole weekend off—what're you and Joanne and the—"

BEEP BEEP BEEP! "_Squad 51, 65-year-old male with difficulty breathing, 2254 Remington, 2-2-5-4- Remington, cross-street Potter, time out: 0920._"

"Squad 51," replied Johnny. "That's clear on the other side of Rampart—we better hurry."

By the time they arrived, the man was clearly having some kind of serious cardiac event. They were able to stabilize him, barely, and Johnny rode in with him while Roy drove the squad to Rampart. Dr. Early and a nurse met Johnny and the patient at the door, and Johnny left the man in their capable hands. Since they didn't need his help, Johnny set off to the lounge to get a cup of coffee and wait for Roy.

In the lounge, Johnny found Dr. Brackett taking a short coffee break as well.

"Mornin', Doc!" he greeted Brackett cheerfully.

"Hi, Johnny," Brackett replied. "Say, Mike Stoker's on your shift, right?"

"Sure is, Doc. He was in to see you this morning for his shoulder, right?"

"Yes he was. And, he said if he saw you and Roy, I should tell you everything looked good, and he's actually ahead of schedule. I expect I'll be able to sign him off after two or three more weeks, if he keeps up with the PT."

"Great! I'll keep him on track, Doc."

"Hm, yeah, he said you'd been helping him out some already. Though it _was_ like pulling nails to get him to say _anything_, frankly," said Brackett.

"Yep, that's our Mikey. Hey, is he up in PT now?"

Brackett checked his watch. "Could be he's still up there—I sent him up about three quarters of an hour ago."

"Maybe I'll go check on him. Wonder what's taking Roy so long with the squad." Johnny grabbed his radio. "Squad 51, HT 51—what's your status?"

"_HT 51, squad's got a flat tire. We're out of service for at least 30 minutes, depending on when Charlie can get here._"

"Copy. See you at Rampart. HT 51 out."

Dr. Brackett looked back at Johnny. "Well, there's your answer. Looks like you've got some time to kill—why don't you go check on your friend?"

"Yeah, Doc, I think I will," said Johnny. "Catch ya later. Thanks for looking after Mike."

"My pleasure," said Dr. Brackett. "Nice polite fellow. He's probably going to be very popular with the ladies up in PT," he remarked. "They usually complain about the firemen and the policemen, but he's kind of not what you expect."

"Well, they're gonna be mighty disappointed," Johnny said as he left the lounge. Then, once he was on his own, in the hallway, he grinned. "'Cause he's reeeeaaallly not available," he said out loud, not realizing that Dixie was watching him from the nurses' station.

Dixie watched Johnny head down the hall, as Kel came out of the lounge. "What's become of Roy?" she asked Kel. "The squad usually gets here right after the ambulance."

"Well, it seems that the squad has a flat tire," said Kel. "You never think of emergency vehicles having ordinary problems like that, but I suppose it must happen."

"So where' s Johnny off to?" she asked.

"Going to see if his buddy from his shift is still up in PT. You haven't seen that Stoker fellow come back down, have you?"

Dixie shook her head. "No, and I'm guessing he would have, once he was done."

~!~!~!~

Johnny was well acquainted with the PT staff, having needed their services several times over the last few years. He rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, and turned the corner to the PT clinic area. He stopped at the desk.

"Hey, Judy!" he greeted the receptionist.

"Well, John Gage! Good heavens, we haven't seen you here in quite a while, have we?"

"No, ma'am," replied Johnny. "I'm just here to look in on my friend Mike Stoker, if he's still here. He's, uh, one of my shift-mates."

"Oh, of course! He should be just about finished up—I know Carol has another appointment coming in shortly. Would you like to wait for him?"

"Sure," said Johnny. "My partner's stuck on the road with a flat tire on the squad, so I've got a few minutes to kill yet."

Johnny tried to sit still in the waiting area, but ended up walking around while trying to read a magazine. Which never worked very well, really. Finally, he went back to the desk to bother Judy some more.

"So, Judy, how are the kids? They must be getting pretty big, huh?" Johnny said, just to kill time.

Judy looked like she didn't mind killing some time herself. "Oh yeah, especially their mouths! Robbie's in sixth grade, and Theresa's in eighth. They're both grounded this week for talking back." She handed him pictures from her desk.

"Wow," said Johnny. "I guess it _has_ been a while since I was up here."

"Oh look," said Judy, "here they come now."

"And remember," said Carol, the physical therapist, "heat _before_ exercises, ice _after_."

"Okay, thanks." Mike made his way over to the desk to schedule his next appointment. "Hey, Gage, you stalking me?"

"Yep." Johnny flashed his grin. "Roy's got a flat tire, so I guess I'm stuck at Rampart for a little while. Wanna get some lunch?"

"Uh, Johnny? It's only ten thirty," said Mike.

"Okay, then, I'll get my second breakfast, or maybe first lunch, and you can get whatever," Johnny said.

"Deal," said Mike. "So," he said to Judy, "Carol said twice a week."

"All right, Mr. Stoker, how about Thursday? Any particular time?"

"Any time is fine."

"One p.m.?" asked Judy.

Mike consulted his calendar. A-shift was on that day, so Johnny would be working. "Sure," he said. He took the appointment card. "Thanks, see you then."

"Bye, Judy, nice to see you," said Johnny.

"All right, Gage, let's get you fed. Again," said Mike, as they walked towards the elevator. "The word 'tapeworm' does come to mind on occasion."

The elevator was already at the fourth floor, so they hopped right in. As soon as the doors were shut, Mike gave Johnny an evil look, used one hand to press and hold the "stop" button, and used the rest of himself to press and hold Johnny up against the elevator wall. "Can't stay away, huh?" he asked huskily.

"Nuh-uh." Johnny stole a clandestine elevator kiss. "Not for five minutes, if I can help it. But Mikey? Hospital elevator," he said sadly. "Can't hold it up."

"Damn," said Mike, releasing the "stop" button, and, dangerously, planting one more kiss on Johnny's lips.

DING! The elevator doors opened at the third floor, and a doctor and a nurse walked in.

DING! The two hospital employees walked out at the second floor.

"Seriously, you're really gonna eat again?" asked Mike. "Seems to me I just got done hand-feeding you an extra large Breakfast of Champions, in your bed, just a couple hours ago."

DING! The elevator doors opened onto the first floor, and Mike and Johnny got out.

"Take a left," said Johnny. "Yeah, true, but it _was_ a few hours ago. Here we are."

"Hey, Johnny," said the attendant at the cafeteria line. "Second breakfast, or first lunch?"

"Hey Bill. I'm thinkin', hm, first lunch. 'Cause there's not much that could top my breakfast this morning. Any chance of a burger at this hour?"

"Sure thing, Johnny. Fries aren't up yet, though. Milkshake?"

"Christ on a crutch," muttered Mike.

Johnny kicked Mike in the ankle. "Thanks, Bill. How 'bout chocolate?"

"Comin' right up. Anything for your friend?"

"Just a coffee," said Mike.

"Sensible man," said Bill. "Here ya go, Johnny. Burger, extra large chocolate shake, and a coffee for you, mister."

They settled up at the register, and went out to the patio, which they had to themselves.

"So, what'd Carol say?" Johnny asked, around a bite of burger.

"She gave me some exercises to do—pretty much the stuff you showed me already, plus a couple more. And she and Brackett both said everything looks on track for getting back to work in three weeks or so."

"Great!" Their knees met under the table. Neither one of them moved.

"There a supply closet around here we could hijack for a while?" Mike asked slyly.

"Ooh, naughty naughty! And the trick with the elevator? _Very_ naughty."

"This coming from the guy who has _the_ most unorthodox uses for Hershey's syrup known to man? And then there was the—"

"_HT 51, Squad 51_."

Johnny rolled his eyes. "Figures," he said to Mike. "Squad 51, go ahead," he said to the radio.

"_I'm rolling—ETA to Rampart five minutes._"

"Copy. I'll meet you outside."

"_10-4, Squad 51 out._"

"Well," said Johnny, "time to get back to work. Walk you to your truck?"

"You bet. I'm parked so far out that oughta kill the whole five minutes."

They bussed their table, and headed out through the E.R.

"See ya, Dix!" Johnny said on his way past the nurses' station.

"Bye Johnny, bye Mike." Dixie watched them walk, slightly closer together than would seem usual, and in perfect step, through the main E.R. door and out to the parking lot. For just a second, she thought that it looked like they ought to be holding hands. _No, Roy,_ she thought, _I'm pretty sure it's __**not**__ someone who works at Rampart._

~!~!~!~

The rest of Monday's shift was a complete and utter bitch.

After the squad was back in service, they had sixteen runs in the remaining twenty-one hours of the shift. Their total of eighteen runs was not a record, but they were up and running all night.

Come Tuesday morning, Johnny and Roy were completely exhausted. Mike and Johnny had planned to meet up at Mike's house at the end of the shift, but Roy and John had a tradition for after shifts like this one. Joanne didn't want Roy driving home after an all-nighter, so she'd pick up both the guys, drop Johnny at his place, and then take Roy home. Johnny figured it would be pretty awkward to not partake of this years-long pattern, so while they were waiting for Joanne, Johnny slipped into the dorms to call Mike.

"_Hello?_"

"Hey, it's me," said Johnny. "Listen, the shift was a bitch, a total all-nighter, and Roy already called Joanne to come pick us up, and I didn't want to back out and try to explain, so it looks like I'm gonna be at my place. I'm really sorry."

"_That's no problem. I can come over there, if you want,_" Mike said calmly. He was aware of Joanne's standing orders for Johnny and Roy after all-nighters, and he didn't have anything to do at home anyhow. "_I'll make you some food—some real food, none of this ice-cream business—while you're sleeping._"

"Would you?" said Johnny. "Wow, that'd be great. Honest, I'd love that. I'll just hit the shower when I get dropped off and then hit the sack, so go ahead and let yourself in."

"_Sure thing_."

"Wow." Johnny said again. "That's really … I mean … wow."

Mike was sad that it seemed that Johnny was so surprised by his offer. "_Nobody's ever really __understood your job before, have they,_" he replied.

"That's an understatement if I ever heard one," admitted Johnny. "Can't tell you how many fights this sort of thing has caused."

"_I know,_" said Mike. "_Me too_."

Roy and Joanne entered the dorm, and gestured to Johnny to finish up.

"Hey, I gotta go—Joanne's here. See you soon, okay?"

"_Okay. Bye_."

Johnny hung up the phone and rose wearily to follow the DeSotos out to Joanne's car.

"Well, I'm pretty sure I hit just about all my limits this shift," said Roy, yawning.

"Yep," was all Johnny could muster up. He struggled to stay awake for the five-minute trip.

Joanne pulled the car into the lot by Johnny's building.

"Thanks, Joanne. You're a gem," Johnny said as he got out. The staircase looked awfully long this morning, but he braved it, got through his door, and decided to skip the shower and head straight for the sack. He was asleep, on top of the covers, in all his clothes, in thirty seconds.

Joanne looked over at her husband while she was stopped at a red light. "Well, I'll bet you missed that little clue back at the station, didn't you," she said.

"Huh?" Roy replied blearily, proving her point. "What clue?"

"Well, when we popped into the dorm to collect Johnny, he was on the phone, probably canceling plans with, well, whoever it is."

"Uh huh? But what clue?"

"I could be wrong, but it sounded like whoever he was talking to knows who I am, since he said 'gotta go, Joanne's here.' I mean, if this woman didn't already know who I was, that would be a weird thing to say, right?"

"Huh. Makes sense. Goes with my theory that he's clammed up 'cause it's somebody we know. Must be a nurse at Rampart, don't you think?"

Joanne frowned. "I don't know, Roy; I only know two or three of the nurses over there by name, and none of them really seem like his type."

"Well," Roy yawned again, "I'm starting to think maybe I don't really know what his type _is_, actually. Maybe he's so smitten this time because he's finally broken out of his stereotypical girlfriend pattern—you know, pretty, slim, giggly—and found someone more, well, real. Maybe what everyone—including him—thinks is his type is absolutely wrong for him. Or maybe she's not so perfectly beautiful or something—I don't know. I'm stumped as to why else he'd clam up so tightly. Gotta either be someone we all know, or someone who's so outside his usual type that he's freaked out."

"Or both," pondered Joanne.

They drove on in silence. Roy couldn't sleep in the car, but he also wasn't up for thinking up any more theories.

Joanne was, though.

"Roy?"

"Mm?"

"This is going to sound completely crazy."

"Try me," Roy replied, eyes closed.

"What if it's not a woman?"

"Huh?" That woke Roy up in a hurry.

"I know, Johnny comes across as such a skirt-chaser. But hear me out—what if it's a man?"

"No way, Joanne. I really don't think so," Roy said firmly.

"Why on earth not? I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but it's quite obvious to me, at least, that Johnny is, well, pretty universally appealing, if you know what I mean. Women look at him, but you know what? So do men."

"Yeah, maybe they do, but that's a far cry from him actually, well, you know. No, I really don't see Johnny as gay."

Joanne laughed. "Okay, I know you're not creeped out by this, with you being close to your cousin Steve and all, but Roy, I'm pretty sure that preferences are a spectrum, not black and white. I mean, I guess you have to biologically be either male or female—I'm no expert, but I imagine _that_ part is usually pretty black and white. But any given person could have a wide range of, um, tastes. Right?"

"I suppose," Roy said dubiously.

"Take Mike Stoker for instance. I mean, he's been with Serena a long time, but haven't you ever noticed how he looks at Johnny?"

Roy didn't say anything—there was really nothing he could say that wouldn't violate Mike's trust in him.

"Okay, maybe not," continued Joanne. "But trust me—women notice these things. He _looks_. A _lot_. So, why couldn't Johnny be the same? I mean, interested in men _and_ women. All I really know is that he'll go out with a girl maybe once or twice and then get dumped. Or maybe he's the one that does the dumping, but I don't think so. And he probably wouldn't tell _you_ if he went out with men, too, now would he? So maybe you think I'm crazy, but—"

Roy sat bolt upright in the passenger seat, suddenly not sleepy at all. "Pull over!"

"Honey, are you all right?" Joanne pulled the car over, even though they were only blocks from home.

Roy had a distant look, as if he were calculating a sum, or trying to recall something important.

"Roy?"

Roy looked back at her. "It's Mike."

"What?" asked Joanne, not understanding what Roy meant.

"You're absolutely right on target, Jo. It's not some nurse from Rampart that Johnny's been seeing. It's Mike Stoker."

Joanne sighed. "Oh dear, I was just using him as an example, Roy—I didn't mean to imply that he and Johnny were—"

"No, I know you weren't. But it's him. It's definitely him. Oh, lord, my partner is sleeping with our engineer." Roy laid his forehead on the dashboard, as if the thrum of the engine could drown out the noise in his head from all the pieces suddenly falling into place.

Joanne thought about this for a minute. "Well. That could get … complicated." She turned the engine off, realizing this was going to be a long conversation.

"Oh boy, Jo, you're not kidding. I mean, I don't care, not really, though it will take some getting used to, but … well, it just _can't_ become public knowledge, you know?"

"Plus there's Serena," said Joanne. "I don't know Mike well, of course, but he doesn't seem like the type to—"

Roy interrupted her. "Joanne, I've known for a while, but I wouldn't have been right for me to tell you—Mike is gay, and he and Serena are just friends. Makes things easier for him, I guess, for people to think he's got a steady girlfriend."

Joanne pondered once again. "Well, that certainly … explains some things."

"Like what?" Roy asked.

Joanne cleared her throat. "Uh, girl talk, Roy. Girl talk. Trust me, you really _don't_ want to know. Suffice it to say, I had my doubts about whether Serena and Mike were, you know, sleeping together."

"No, you're right, I _really_ don't want to know." Roy rubbed his brow.

"But Roy," said Joanne, "I don't understand why you think it has to be Mike."

Roy described the pair's behavior on the camping trip; then finding them cuddled up asleep in the back seat on the drive home; Johnny's odd manner of speaking when he talked about who he was with, which Roy had finally realized was odd because of the complete lack of gender-specific pronouns; finding Mike and Johnny laughing hysterically at Rampart, and Johnny's remark about Stoker's subtle funny bone. Put that all together with the timing of Johnny's smitten behavior, and voila.

"Mike Stoker, falling all over himself laughing? Now _that_ I would've liked to have seen," declared Joanne.

"Actually," said Roy, "it was more like he was falling all over Johnny."

"In any case," Joanne continued, "the facts do seem to add up."

As Roy thought about it, he realized other things that made sense now—Johnny's being early to shift on Saturday, for one—nobody was ever that early except Stoker. When they ran into Stoker at Rampart, and Johnny said he hoped they might bump into him—why would Johnny think they might run into Stoker unless he already knew that Mike was going to be there?

Roy shook his head. "I don't see why he didn't feel like he could tell _me_, though."

"Roy, why would he feel like he _could_ tell you?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right. He's never met Steve, right?"

Joanne smiled. "No, honey; you don't tend to have your firehouse friends over to play when Steve's visiting. And another thing," she continued, "I think he—_they_—would probably feel like they needed to tell Captain Stanley first, wouldn't they? I mean, if they were planning on telling anyone at all. Which, given who they work for, I can see why they wouldn't."

"Yeah, I guess not. I mean, I've never exactly looked it up, but I'm pretty sure a guy could get fired for that sort of thing. I guess. I don't know." Roy rubbed his brow again, realizing he was developing a tremendous headache.

"I guess I should say something to Johnny," Roy said finally. "I mean, I can't know about this thing and not tell him that I know about it. Might actually be a relief for him for someone he trusts to know. But geez, one of them is gonna have to transfer, don't you think?"

"That's for sure," said Joanne. "Whether it lasts or not, they can't work together. Not in a job like this. If it doesn't last—well, working with the other person would be awkward. If it does last? Seeing the other person in danger could be really hard. I mean, I couldn't be there seeing _you_ do what you do every day."

Roy sat silently for a few seconds. "Do _you_ think I should talk to Johnny?" he asked, reluctantly, knowing what Joanne would say, and knowing that she would be right,

"If you're sure, absolutely sure, that Mike is the one he's tangled up with? Definitely." She started the car again. "But not at work. And soon. Like today."

"I'm sure," Roy said wearily. "Today. I'll talk to him today. _After_ I get some shut-eye."

They sat silently the rest of the way home. When they reached the house, Joanne let them in the front door. Roy plodded up the stairs, and, like his already-sleeping partner, skipped the shower, and fell straight asleep.

~!~!~!~

It wasn't till 10:00 that Mike finally let himself into Johnny's apartment as quietly as he could. He first put away the groceries he'd brought—all the supplies needed for Stoker's Spaghetti Supreme. Then, he couldn't resist checking on Johnny.

He found the bedroom door open, and saw that Johnny hadn't bothered with much of anything when he got home. He was sprawled face-down, diagonally across his bed, still-shod feet hanging off one edge. Mike figured he could at least get Johnny's shoes off without waking him. Sure enough, he was able to remove first one shoe, then the other, and Johnny barely stirred. Mike remembered there was an afghan on the living room sofa, and brought that in to cover Johnny with. He draped the afghan over the napper, who pulled it around himself and curled up like a cat, mumbling to himself as he did so.

Mike wrestled with temptation, and won. Much though he would have loved to climb in and curl up around Johnny, he knew that would be selfish. So he quietly closed the door, and headed to the kitchen to start chopping up the vegetables for the spaghetti sauce. He had decided not to start actually cooking anything until Johnny was awake, since he didn't want to take any chance of waking him.

It didn't take him long to do the prep on the ingredients for making his spaghetti for just the two of them. When he'd finished, he cleaned up, and started some coffee. He knew he shouldn't wake Johnny for another hour or so, but he was dying for another cup. He set up the percolator, and settled into the living room with his book.

As he failed miserably in reading, Mike thought about life. It was great—it was better than it ever had been. And he was pretty darned sure Johnny was feeling the exact same way.

He also realized that Johnny was right about what they'd been talking about the previous day—what they'd argued about a bit.

Cap.

Johnny was right. They couldn't tell him. It wasn't that Johnny didn't trust Cap—though Mike knew that trust, for Johnny, was something that was earned, and not quickly, either. But Mike realized what Johnny meant about putting Cap in an awkward position, by telling him they were involved.

Especially if they were working together. Which, Mike realized, Johnny had already figured out they shouldn't do, by offering to put in for a transfer.

With perfect clarity, Mike understood what needed to happen. He needed to talk to Cap, and tell him that he was going to put in for a transfer that would be effective as soon as he was back to work. With any luck, he'd get an A-shift assignment. If they weren't lucky, he'd get B- or C-shift, and they'd still have a third of their days to spend together, which was no worse than people who worked jobs with typical business hours. Well, except for all the nights apart. But they'd deal with it.

Mike went into Johnny's tiny kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, and returned to the living room with it. The more he thought about it, the more the idea of the transfer made sense. Working together, with their huge secret, might be fun at first, but in the long run, it could, and likely would, get problematic. And, Mike realized, while it was hard enough, as an engineer, to see your buddies going into dangerous situations while you remained safe outside, it would be impossible, now, to watch Johnny put himself into dangerous situations, every single shift. It was inevitable, given Johnny's history, that he'd get hurt at some point, and while Mike would want to be there for him, he wouldn't be able to stand to see it happen. And he wouldn't be able to hide his feelings if it did. _When_ it did. Mike shuddered, literally, and slopped some coffee on his jeans.

"Shit," he said. Mike went into the kitchen, and cleaned himself up with the kitchen towel. He couldn't put the image of Johnny, lying there hurt, out of his mind. He realized that it was close enough to the right time to be waking Johnny up, anyhow, so he decided to go lie down with him, and hold him close, to make himself feel better.

Mike set his coffee mug on the counter, and quietly opened the bedroom door. Johnny had managed to get the afghan onto the floor, but he himself was at least entirely on the bed, with his head on a pillow, facing towards the center of the bed. Mike joined him, trying to jostle the bed and its occupant as little as possible. He draped an arm and a leg over Johnny, and touched their foreheads together. Johnny stirred slightly, stretched out an arm, and pulled Mike closer. Mike heard his own name in Johnny's mumbling, which made him smile.

Mike carded through Johnny's thick hair with his fingers, and kissed him gently on the lips. "Hey, love," he whispered.

"Mm?"

"Johnny?" Mike stroked Johnny's hair, his cheekbone, and kissed him once more.

"Time is it," mumbled Johnny.

"Almost noon."

"Auuugh."

"You wanna sleep a little more?"

"Shouldn't," Johnny said into Mike's neck. But he showed no signs of getting out of bed.

"You wanna get up, then?"

"Nope. C'mere."

They nuzzled and snuggled together for a while longer, until Mike heard Johnny's stomach growling. "So what's next on the menu?" Mike asked. "Shower, or Stoker's Spaghetti Supreme?"

"Oooh, tough decision. Can't eat in the shower—I've tried it; never works. How 'bout this: a super-fast, no nonsense, just-to-get-clean shower, then eat. 'Cause I'm about to die of malnourishment."

Mike frowned. "You didn't eat after your shift, did you." It was really more of an observation than a question, but Johnny answered anyhow.

"Thought about it, but didn't manage."

Mike was rapidly building up a Personal Guide to the Care and Feeding of John Gage. "All right, against my more carnal inclinations, I'll let you get a shower all by your lonesome, but only because that'll go faster. And don't even bother with getting dressed—I want to see you in your towel, at the table, in five minutes."

Johnny grinned and leapt out of bed. "For you, I'll do it in three. Time me," he said, racing to the shower.

Mike shook his head in wonder—_the guy is hyper as hell even on half a night's sleep and no breakfast or coffee._ He emerged from the bed, pulled on his clothes, and headed to the kitchen. He turned the heat back on under the pot full of spaghetti, and stirred it while it warmed. Not that it had had time to cool off much, but still.

Mike heard the water shut off. A minute later, Johnny emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, hair wet and uncombed. Mike laughed, and set a huge plate of spaghetti in front of this splendid vision.

"Whaaa-aat." Johnny scowled accusingly.

"Nothing," said Mike, dishing up his own lunch. "Just enjoying the scenery. Chow down," he suggested. He poured a glass of milk for Johnny, and water for himself, and joined Johnny at the table.

"Wow, Mike, great as usual," Johnny managed to say while wolfing down his first portion.

Mike knew better than to try to have an actual conversation with Johnny when he was in wolfing-mode. He settled for watching and appreciating Johnny's progress while working at a sane pace on his own lunch. When Mike was halfway through his human-sized portion, Johnny hopped up and dished out another helping for himself.

Halfway through his second helping, Johnny started to slow down, and was able to carry on a conversation. "You're lookin' pretty serious."

Mike sighed. "Yeah. I've been thinking. You're right, you know."

"Um, about what?" Johnny said.

"We can't tell Cap. You're right. It would create more problems than it would solve, and not just for us."

"Yep." Johnny poked at an olive.

Mike cleared his throat. "Well, I was thinking while you were sleeping. I'm gonna tell him I'll put in for a transfer, to keep things clean. No," he said as Johnny started to protest, "it's the logical thing to do. We can't keep working together. I just kinda figured that out, too. I think maybe you were one step ahead of me on this one, but I was thinking about what it would be like if … you know. If something happened."

Johnny paused, and looked seriously at Mike. "Yeah. I know." He cleared his throat. "Kinda gives me a new respect for Joanne, actually. Thinkin' about that."

Mike didn't say anything. Johnny was far more likely to get hurt than Mike was, but the fact that Johnny was thinking about the reverse scenario touched Mike deeply.

"Me too."

"And thanks, Mike. Thanks for taking the transfer."

Mike took Johnny's hand from across the table. "It makes more sense this way. Can't go splitting you and Roy up. And I really don't mind—my commute sucks, especially _after_ shift, right at rush hour, going the same way as the rest of the fools. And, I really don't think I could stand watching you do all your crazy rescue stuff anymore, while I stand there by the engine, safely operating the pumps. Safe and sound, while you're not. That was the hardest part of my job, before—being safe and somewhat useless while everyone else isn't—but now?" Mike shook his head. "Couldn't do it, babe."

Johnny stood up, pulled the table two feet towards himself, and went around to the other side. He straddled Mike's lap, putting his hands on Mike's shoulders. "Useless? Don't _ever_ talk like that. You're damned good at your job—there's never been _one_ time that our crew needed water and didn't have it, or didn't have enough, because you missed something. _Never_. And that keeps the rest of us safe—brings us home every damned time. And there's nothing wrong with _not_ being the one who runs towards the fire. Stupid thing to do anyhow. So you just keep being an engineer, and keep bringing everyone home every shift, okay?"

"Okay," Mike said quietly.

"Okay," Johnny concluded, tipping Mike's chin up and kissing him soundly.

The phone rang, shattering the moment.

"Shit." Johnny went to answer it.

"Hello?"

Mike couldn't hear who was at the other end of the conversation.

"Oh, hey Roy. What's up?"

Johnny listened, and rubbed his forehead with his free hand.

"Yeah," said Johnny, as he flopped down onto the sofa, and held his head in his hand.

"Okay, in half an hour," he said. "But we're—I mean, I gotta go out not too long after that."

Mike heard more unintelligible speech, and a click. And then Johnny's jaw dropped. He looked at the handset as if it had suddenly grown purple feathers and eyes on stalks , and placed it gently back on the base.

"What was that all about?" asked Mike, joining Johnny on the couch.

Johnny ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "Aw, Roy's coming over in half an hour—he has to talk to us."

Mike sat stock still. "Us?"

"Yeah, us. He said not to send you home. You, specifically, by name."

Mike slumped over onto Johnny. "Shit. I don't suppose we could just run away, could we?"

"No." Johnny paused. "I didn't say anything, Mikey. I was real careful. But I guess not careful enough."

Mike blew out a breath. "No, I wasn't thinking you said anything. But, well, he already knew about me, and didn't say a thing to anyone."

"But he didn't know about me. My, uh, flexibility. He's probably pretty freaked."

"We'll see. I don't think he'll tell anyone, though."

"No. He's about the most trustworthy guy I know."

Mike sighed again. "Well, I guess I might as well just call Cap now. Tell him I need to transfer. Get that outta the way."

Johnny silently passed him the phone, stretching the wall cord over himself.

Mike took a deep breath, and dialed.

"_Stanley residence, Hank speaking._"

"Hey, Cap, it's Mike Stoker."

"_Mike! Everything okay? You had your checkup yesterday, right?_"

"Yeah, I'm fine, and Dr. Brackett said the shoulder's doing great. I'll probably be back in three weeks or so. But listen, I need to talk to you, right away, about something, um, personal. It's _really_ important. So I'm wondering if you have a minute. Or I could call back later, if that's better."

"_Now's fine—but what's wrong? Are you okay talking on the phone? I could come over, if that's easier._" Mike could hear the concern in Cap's voice.

"No—it's okay to talk about it over the phone. It's …" Mike paused. "Well, it's like this, Cap. I really hate to say this, but I think I need to apply for a transfer."

There was silence on the other end of the line while Cap processed what Mike had said. "_I'm … really sorry to hear that, Mike. May I ask why?_" He hesitated. "_It's not—I mean, you're not having any problems with any of the guys, are you?_"

Mike smiled. "No, nothing like that. And I'm really sorry to spring this on you. But the thing is, I've had plenty of time to think, lately, about a lot of things. Like, for instance, how bad my commute has gotten. And, that if I'm ever going to do anything else other than be an engineer, I need to have experience that's a little broader than just staying at the same station forever. Don't get me wrong—I love it at 51s. I mean, we're really family, and I hate to be the one to break it up. But what with being out for so long, I think this would be the logical time for me to put in for the transfer."

Cap sighed. "_I understand. I'm sorry, too—but I completely understand. And, it was really only a matter of time before one of you guys realized that you needed to stretch your wings professionally. It's pretty unusual that the six of us have been together for so long, actually. Says good things about all of us, I think, but you're right—on many levels. You _should_ do it, and this _is_ a good time. I'll sure hate to see you go, and I know the other guys will, too._"

"Yeah. About that—I was thinking, maybe I'd come in at the beginning of the next shift, and talk to the guys. Explain myself, you know? Instead of just disappearing."

"_Any time, Mike. And, I'll start thinking of where to put you. Unless you had some specific ideas?"_

"Not really. Closer to home, for sure. I bet they have hard time keeping people at some of the stations up north, so that might be a good place to look."

"_True … in fact, you just gave me an idea. A really good idea. You know it's not up to me, where your new assignment is, but if I come up with a recommendation that makes sense, it'll likely be accepted._"

"Okay—I mean, any idea you have would be fine with me, if it makes sense."

"_I'll get back to you when I know more_." Cap paused. "_So, I guess we'll see you the day after tomorrow, then?_"

"Yeah. I'll come by first thing, and I'll do the paperwork at the station, if you don't mind, and talk to the guys."

"_All right. Well, thanks for letting me know. I'm sorry to hear it, but I completely understand._"

"Thanks, Cap."

"_One thing, Mike. I kind of think … nah, never mind._"

Mike frowned. "What, Cap?"

"_Well—okay. This might sound kind of strange, but, if there's any way you could talk to Gage about this before you show up, I think that would be a good idea. He's … well, between you and me, I think he's pretty sensitive. But don't tell him I said that—no, never mind, you wouldn't do that. It's just that you guys were getting along really well on the trip, it seemed, and I think, probably, it might be upsetting for him to be blindsided by something like this. He kind of takes things personally sometimes. And maybe harder than he should_."

Mike smiled. "Sure, Cap. I understand perfectly what you mean. I'll be sure to do that."

They concluded their conversation, and Mike hung up the phone and passed it back to Johnny.

"You'll be sure to do what?" Johnny asked.

"Talk to you, before I show up at the station for the next shift to talk to all the guys together."

Johnny frowned. "You don't think he _knows_, do you?"

Mike shook his head. "No—he just thought you and I were getting along really well on the trip, and that you might take it personally if I transferred out right now, without saying anything to you."

"Hmm. He's pretty observant."

"Another reason I have to go," Mike said. "He'd figure it out. Soon."

"Yeah."

"Heck of a show we've got going today," remarked Johnny.

"Yep." Mike leaned into Johnny for support.

"Hey, we'll be fine. Okay?"

Mike nodded, not even up to a Stokeresque monosyllabic response.

Johnny pulled him closer, hugging him in. "If I know you, which I think I do, what you're thinking right now is, _what if this is all a huge mistake_? Am I right?"

Mike nodded.

"Well_ I _don't think it is, and I don't think _you_ do, either. Do you?" asked Johnny.

Mike shook his head.

"And you're thinking, it's only been a week, this is crazy, right?"

Mike nodded again.

"Wanna know what I'm thinking?" Johnny didn't give Mike time to reply. "I'm thinking, it's only been a week, but it feels like forever, and I can already tell this is different from anything I've ever been in before. I think about next week, next month, next year, and I want them all to be with you. And that's what I'm thinking, Mike."

"Me too," Mike said softly.

"And I wanna do everything we can to not screw it up."

"Yeah," said Mike. "Me too."

They sat silently for a minute or two more. "And now I better get a three-minute power shower," said Mike, "'cause damn."

"That's for sure. I'll clean up the kitchen while you clean up Mike Stoker." Johnny stood up and pulled Mike to his feet. He whispered into Mike's ear. "But I do like to get you real messy."

Mike smacked Johnny's rear, and headed for the shower. Minutes later, he emerged, clean, well-kempt, and dressed. Johnny was finishing the dishes, still in his towel.

"Uh, Johnny? Roy's gonna be here any second, and you're still in a towel."

"Huh? Oh, guess I better get decent—don't wanna make poor Roy any more nervous than he's gonna be, right?" Johnny dashed to the bedroom and threw on fresh jeans and a t-shirt, and finished making himself presentable just as the doorbell rang.

"Lemme get it," said Johnny. He swung the door open. "Hey, Roy; c'mon in."

Roy had that nervous look, the one Johnny associated with Roy feeling like he himself had done something really wrong. He led Roy into the living room, where Mike was sitting on the end of the couch farthest from the recliner that he figured Johnny would suggest to Roy.

Johnny didn't disappoint. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the recliner. He joined Mike on the couch. Close enough not to look like he was keeping his distance from Mike, but not so close as to upset Roy.

Roy sat down and looked back and forth at the two of them. "I guess I see why you weren't telling, Johnny. I'm happy for you guys, honest, no problems from me, but you gotta know how complicated this is gonna be. And _that's_ what makes me nervous."

"Complicated," said Johnny. "Ain't that the truth." He paused. "And thanks for not being pissed, or freaked."

"Oh, but Johnny, I _am_ freaked. Not because of the guy-guy thing—that's fine with me. But because, well, I thought I knew you better. Geez, Johnny, it's like you chase girls for a living, and then suddenly you find true love and it's with a guy?"

"For cryin' out loud, Roy, what was I gonna do, say to you, 'oh, by the way, all those days off where you ask me what I'm doing and I say I'm heading up to Santa Barbara, it's to meet men, someplace where I won't get fired for it?' Would that have been a good idea? No. So, I'm _sorry_ it's a surprise to you that I date both men and women, but it really wasn't something I could share with people from work." Johnny managed to stay seated, but his foot was jiggling wildly, setting up a vibration in the entire room. "Not even you. Sorry."

Roy sat silently for a minute or so. "I guess I'm annoyed with myself for having no idea. And maybe a little annoyed with you, too. I mean, I always thought we were really good friends, and that we knew a lot about each other, right?"

"We _are_ really good friends, and we _do_ know a lot about each other. But this part of me, Roy? I don't think you really get how hard I have to work to keep it separate from anything and anyone having to do with work—it's really more like it's a whole 'nother life. So I got really, really good at compartmentalizing my life. And I got really, really good at exaggerating my exploits with the girls.

"'Cause you know what? Chicks just don't dig me. I mean, they start out thinking they do, but then they don't. Usually after the first date they never call me back even if I _do_ call them, or maybe we'd go out once more and one of us would say things just weren't going to work out. And on the rare occasion that something _did_ go past the second or third date, the job was always the killer. Nobody was interested enough to be able to get past the realities of my work."

Roy sat back, and looked at the two of them. "Honest, I'm totally fine with this, but I'm just really, really worried that work is gonna be a huge problem. If I were Cap, and I found out in a few weeks or months that this had been going on, I'd be real pissed. If I found out right now, I'd just want one of you to transfer."

Mike spoke up. "I just got off the phone with Cap. I'm putting in for a transfer for when I come off medical leave. He doesn't know the real reason."

Roy heaved a sigh of relief. "Okay, so you _have_ actually thought about reality. Once I put it all together, I was afraid, from how Gage here has been acting, that you were both so lovestruck that you hadn't thought about how this was gonna play out when you were back on shift together."

"We thought about it, Roy. We talked about it. Hell, we fought about it—Stoker style," Johnny grinned over to Mike. "And we think we're set to do the right thing. What do you think, Roy?"

Roy looked at them seriously. "I think you're absolutely right to not be working together. There's _so_ many reasons how that could be a disaster. And, one more thing—Mike, you need to have a really good explanation, for other people, about why you're transferring. Everyone at the station likes you, and they deserve an explanation, and you can't tell them the real one."

"The commute around the city is a bitch on the way home when I'm tired. Gas prices are going up and up." said Mike. "I'm looking at other opportunities, like arson investigation. I've already taken a lot of the required courses to be an investigator. But if I'm going to do something totally new, I need to have experience in more than just one station. I know I don't want to be a Captain, and with the Captain's exams coming up, there'll be plenty of openings for engineers, maybe something closer to home. None of these are lies. Not the entire truth, either."

Roy sat back. "Huh. Okay, I guess you've thought about this pretty carefully."

Johnny scowled. "Roy, we're not kids."

Roy put a hand up in defense. "I know, I know. But honestly, my first thought was, the job is everything to both you guys, and there's so many nasty ways this could affect your jobs. I just didn't want to see either of you get crushed by the bureaucracy."

"Thanks, Roy," Mike said quietly.

They all sat there looking at each other. Roy was still looking like he was about to burst some capillaries, and Mike looked like he wanted to make himself fold up and disappear. So Johnny took charge.

"Okay, we're all adults here—at least most of the time. So spill it, guys," said Johnny. "You first, Mike," he ordered.

"Um, Roy? How'd you know?" Mike asked nervously.

Roy massaged his temples, making Johnny want to run for the aspirin. "Well, I had a little help from my highly observant wife."

"Joanne?" Johnny said. "But she hasn't even seen us since—I mean, huh?"

"Look, Johnny, I knew you were, um, smitten, with someone we all knew, all right? Because why wouldn't you say who it was, otherwise? And Jo and I got to talking about how maybe the Mystery Woman was someone way outside your usual, um, scope of practice, but still someone we knew, and then Joanne just popped out with 'what if it's not a woman?' And that was all it took."

Roy looked over to Mike. "And Mike, I swear, I had not said a _thing_ to her about anything you told me. She just kind of, well, knew already."

Mike nodded. "I know you wouldn't tell her. And I guess the women probably talk about stuff we don't wanna know about anyhow, so that's something, too."

Roy grimaced. "Yeah, that's the truth. She said something about that. I shut down _that_ line of conversation in a hurry, let me tell you."

Johnny shook his head. "I don't even wanna know, Roy."

"Yeah, neither did I." Roy cleared his throat. "But here's something I _do_ wanna know. I mean, I know it's none of my business, but … how'd this, uh, happen?"

Mike and Johnny looked at each other. Mike shrugged.

"Camping trip, Roy. We kinda … got to talking about serious life stuff," said Johnny. "And the rest is kinda personal." Because really, the details were none of Roy's business.

Roy shook his head. "And there I was trying to keep you guys separated. Shows what I know."

Mike spoke up. "Given what you _did_ know, I guess it was nice of you to try. Didn't work out the way you planned, though." Mike smiled. "I don't remember much of what happened when I was flying on the morphine, but I do remember you said I was barking up the wrong tree if I was interested in this guy here."

"Yeah, well. Shows what I know," Roy repeated.

Johnny looked seriously at Roy. "So, are we okay? You and me?"

"Yeah, Junior, we're okay. And don't worry—I know how to keep my mouth shut." Roy stood up. "On that note, I oughta let you guys get on with your day."

"Thanks, Roy. Thanks for not, you know, being a jerk," said Johnny. "And I'm sorry I had to keep you in the dark, but, well, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

Johnny went to let Roy out.

"Oh, I almost forgot. It feels totally absurd to put this on you guys right now, but I promised I'd ask. Joanne wanted me to see if you guys wanted to come over Friday for dinner. If you're comfortable with that." He stopped at the door and looked back at both of them. "I'm comfortable with that, and so is Joanne. Okay?"

Mike and Johnny looked at each other.

"Can we let you know later?" asked Johnny.

"Sure, no problem. Give us a call later, if you want."

Roy exited, and Johnny closed the door after him. He leaned his forehead against the door, and let out a huge breath that it felt like he'd been holding for a week. Mike slipped up behind him, and wrapped his arms around Johnny, resting his chin on Johnny's shoulder.

"You okay?" Mike asked.

"Yeah. I mean, I think so." Johnny sighed. "I guess I just feel like a jerk."

"Why?" asked Mike.

"I dunno, I mean, Roy's been my best buddy for a real long time, and I guess I just feel bad for keeping such a huge secret. It seemed completely reasonable and normal for the last six years, but now I just feel like a total jerk."

"I don't really know what else you were supposed to do, Johnny. I mean, what'd you call Roy the other day? Mr. Traditional?"

Johnny snorted. "Yeah, that's right. Guess that's not totally fair, is it."

"You know what's not fair? It's not fair that we have to go through all the shenanigans we're dealing with today. _That's_ not fair. And that we can't go out together in our county of seven million people? _That's_ not fair. And that I couldn't ask you out the day you walked into Station 51? _That's_ not fair. So yeah, you're right, it _wasn't_ fair to pre-judge Roy, but that's the way the world works. The world isn't fair."

"Mike?" squeaked Johnny. "You're squeezin' me like a boa constrictor."

Mike let go hastily. "Sorry. I'm just—ah, I dunno."

"Yeah." Johnny turned to face Mike. "You know what we oughta do?"

"What?"

"Let's go to your place, and just lie around in the yard, and not do anything. Lie in the grass, read something totally mindless maybe, I dunno. Your place is upwind from the smog, so it'll almost be like really being outside."

"That sounds pretty good," admitted Mike. "I don't like to get this stressed out." He pulled Johnny to him for a nice, normal, non-boa-constrictor hug and kiss. "C'mon, grab some stuff, and we'll go to my place. We can pick up your Rover at the station on the way."

"'kay." He sighed. "Least I've got tomorrow off. I'm totally wiped out."

**TBC**


	6. Fix Me Up

**Invisible Minority**

**Chapter 6: Fix me up**

Mike arrived at home just in time to answer the ringing phone.

"Hello?"

"_Mike? Hank Stanley._"

"Oh, hey, Cap. Can you hang on a second? I just walked in the door—lemme just put my stuff down."

"_Sure_."

Mike set his bag on the dining room table, and went back to the phone.

"Sorry—here I am. What's up?"

"_Boy, you must be the fastest grocery shopper in the world!_"

"Huh?"

"_Well, you called me only about what, an hour and a half ago? And you're just getting back in now, with bags? So that's a pretty fast shopping trip_."

Mike realized, in a hurry, that Cap had assumed that Mike had called from home earlier, so he just let the assumption stand.

"Oh. Well, I don't waste any time when I'm shopping. Anyhow, what's up?"

"_Well, when you mentioned looking at stations up north, you gave me an idea of someone to talk to. A fellow I worked with before 51s opened is the captain of the A-shift at a station up north of you, and he's always talking about the turnover at his station. So I gave him a call—and as it turns out, his engineer is up for promotion, and they're expecting him to move up in six or eight weeks. This captain—Len Sterling's his name—well, he's a bit, uh, different. But I think you guys would get along great. It'd be Station 93, which, honestly, is about the same number of miles from your place as 51s. But it's in the opposite direction—farther away from the city than you already are at your place. So it'd probably only take you half the time to get there._"

"Hang on," said Mike. "I've got a map here somewhere." He rummaged in a drawer. "Here it is. That's up about as far north as any of the county stations are, isn't it?"

"_Yep_." Cap gave him the street address, and Mike looked it up on the map.

"Wow—yeah, it's just as far, but I'd just get right on the highway, and right off again—so you're right. Probably half the drive time. That sounds pretty good." Mike was also thinking about how long it would take to get to Johnny's place from Station 93—a long time, but he couldn't exactly say that to Cap.

"_Let me tell you a bit about Len Sterling, too,_" Cap said. "_He was a fireman at the station where I was engineer before I moved up to captain at 51s. He's only been a captain for a year—but I can tell you, he'll be great. It was pretty clear he was a natural leader even back then._"

"You said he was a bit different, too," Mike said.

"_Ah. Yes. Well, he's a Vietnam veteran, like a lot of guys. But what's different about him, was that before __he got sent to 'Nam, he lived on a commune. He doesn't talk a lot about what happened over there, but when he got back home after his tour of duty, he couldn't readjust to that life. He's about as open-minded as they come, and sharp as a tack. He's pretty far to the left, politically, which I only know because he and Jane met up at some kind of political event, because he keeps that sort of thing out of the workplace. But—Mike, I think you'd like him, and I think he'd like you._"

Mike liked what he was hearing. He tended not to pay too much attention to politics, but generally found that he agreed with Jane Stanley about most of the things she ever brought up. So the fact that his potential new captain had some things in common with Mrs. Stanley, who he liked a lot, was comforting, somehow. It also alleviated his fear that he could get a captain who was someone he'd have to watch his every step around. But there was the timing to consider. "You said six to eight weeks, though—I'm supposed to be back in three."

"_Oh—well, here's the beauty of it. Len's got two guys who are overdue for vacations, and they have a really hard time getting subs. So, if you're interested, you could fill in for those guys, and get to know the place, until Len's engineer gets moved up. Or, of course, you could always stay at 51s until then if you'd prefer._"

The doorbell rang, and Mike could see Johnny's Rover in the driveway. "Can you hang on a sec, Cap? Someone's at the door."

Mike greeted Johnny at the door. "Hey—c'mon in. I'm on the phone with Cap—make yourself at home. Coffee's just about ready."

"Thanks—gee, could you tell somehow that I'd need some?" Johnny grabbed Mike and kissed him quickly, and then spun him around towards the phone in the living room.

"Sorry, Cap. Anyhow, I think filling in at 93s would be a great way to jump in," he said. "Not that I'm dying to leave 51s, of course. I just think … well, it'd be harder to leave if I came back for a few weeks. You know?" _Even though it's really not an option_, he added silently.

"_I understand. Anyhow—I don't need an answer today, but soon would be good. HQ can be glacially slow with these things, sometimes. So the sooner we get the request in, the better._"

"I don't think I need to think about it, Cap. If you think it's a good match, I'll take it. I mean," he added hastily, "if he wants me, and if HQ approves the transfer."

"_Len already said he'd be happy to have you. And HQ will jump on a transfer request to a station that they have a hard time keeping people in_."

"Okay," Mike said. It was starting to hit him that he really wasn't going to be back at 51s. "Wow. Okay. I guess I'm really doing this."

"_Everyone will understand, Mike. But on that note—I do hope you'll talk to John about this. Like I was saying earlier._"

"Oh—yeah. I already did. He understands fine."

There was a pause at the other end of the line. "_Well, that was speedy,_" Cap said. "_I'd've thought he'd be a little harder to catch up with than that!_"

Mike realized it wasn't really reasonable for him to have already spoken with Johnny. But he'd already said it. "I, uh, talked to him right after I talked to you earlier. But listen," Mike said, wanting to get away from that particular line of discussion. "I was thinking it'd be good for me to talk to all the guys. Like, maybe I could come in on Thursday morning, when A-shift's on again next, and do my transfer paperwork, and then I could talk to all the guys at once."

"_Sure, Mike. Wow—you're keeping up with when our shift's on, even though you've been off for a __while? I don't think I'd be able to keep track of it._"

Mike kicked himself, as he realized he'd blown it again. "I guess it's kind of automatic," he said. "Anyhow—thanks a lot for working this all out. I'll see you Thursday."

"_Sure thing, Mike. See you then._"

Mike hung up the phone, and turned to see Johnny standing next to him with two cups of coffee. "Thanks—wow, I guess I really need some too. I nearly blew it a bunch of times."

"What's goin' on?" Johnny asked.

"Looks like I got my new assignment," Mike said. He pointed to the place he'd marked on the map. "Station 93. The captain is some guy named Len Sterling, who Cap made sound like a total hippie."

"Seriously?" Johnny said. "That oughta be interesting. But what'd ya mean, you nearly blew it?"

"Oh—Cap assumed I'd called him earlier from here, and then I said I'd just walked in the door when he called back. And then he reminded me to tell you I was transferring, and I said I already had. And _then_ he was surprised I'd kept track of what days A-shift was on. Stupid little things like that."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Johnny said. "I mean, it wasn't anything really weird. Like, say, if he'd called my place at noon today after an all-nighter and you'd answered."

"Yeah—I guess maybe until someone invents a thing where you can somehow tell who's calling before you answer—and wouldn't _that_ be great?—we better not answer each other's phones."

"Prob'ly not," Johnny said.

"Anyhow—thank goodness that's the end of _that_ show," he said. "You know, I didn't do a damned thing today, and had a nice nap, too, but I'm totally wiped out."

"You know it, man," said Johnny, who had sprawled himself out on the couch. "C'mere," he said, patting the couch. He flattened himself against the back of the couch to make room for Mike. Mike stretched out, facing Johnny—the two of them just barely fit without the outside person being in peril.

Mike snuggled his face into Johnny's neck and loosed a heavy sigh.

"You okay?" Johnny asked.

"I'm great," Mike's muffled voice replied. "I mean, Cap's fixed me up with a new assignment already, and it sounds great, but—it's all gonna be different."

"Sorry," Johnny said. "Sorry you had to take the transfer. Thanks for doing it."

"It's all right. It's the right thing to do."

The two stayed wrapped together on Mike's couch for many minutes, not talking, just holding on to each other. Johnny chuckled quietly all of a sudden.

"Whasso funny?" Mike asked contentedly.

"Not funny, really. I just like smelling _my_ shampoo in _your_ hair, is all."

More minutes slid by, with neither man wanting to move from where they were.

"Mike, c'n I ask you something?" Johnny said suddenly.

"Of course. Anything."

"I guess," Johnny started tentatively, "um, I guess I kinda have this idea that maybe you were with someone for a long time, and that maybe it busted up not all that long ago."

Johnny felt Mike's body suddenly tense up. "Yeah—he, uh, lived here till about a year ago. It just … took a while to get all his stuff out of here. We were together for four years. Two good ones, a not so great one, and then a lousy one. How could you tell?"

"Oh, just places where it looked like there should be stuff, but—no stuff."

"That's about right." Mike unburied his face to make eye contact. "It's okay. Sucked at the time, but a week later I knew I was better off. A month later I was kicking myself for not ending it earlier. And I'll bet you can guess what _one_ of the problems was."

"The job," Johnny said without hesitation. "It's always the job."

"Yep. He wanted me to have a nice, stable nine-to-five job, where I'd be home for dinner every night. But instead, he got what he got. And I guess maybe I loved the job more than I loved him."

"Or," said Johnny, "you could say _he_ didn't love _you_ enough to take your calling along with the rest of you."

Mike sat up. "You know, I never once thought of it that way. Not _once_. Huh."

"Yeah, well, Mike, I think sometimes, just _maybe_, you think things are all your fault when they're not."

"You think so, huh?" Mike said wryly.

"Yep. Anxiety lobe."

"Oh," added Mike, "and speaking of anxiety, don't worry about us ever running into Larry—that's his name. He moved to Boston."

"Okay," said Johnny. "I wasn't worried."

"Figures." Mike stretched, and his shoulder cracked.

"Hey, you do your PT yet today?" asked Johnny.

"Um, didn't get to it. Oughta, huh."

"Yeah—heat first, help from yours truly during, and ice after. Then we can do that layin' around in the yard we were talkin' about. Oh, and then an early dinner. Pizza and beer," said Johnny.

Mike laughed. "That's your prescription, huh?"

"Yep. I'll fix you up. I can go get dinner while you're icing your shoulder. But first—I made sandwiches while you were on the phone with Cap. They're on the table."

"You know, I'm gonna be old and fat in a month, at this rate."

"Well, we'll just go for a little run in the morning, how 'bout that."

"Uh, sure, long as you can go slow enough not to kill me. And as long as 'a little run' isn't ten miles or something outrageous like that."

Johnny opened his mouth, then shut it again. "Or we could hit the beach. Running on the beach—that's real good exercise—and then go for a swim. We've got all day."

They ate their lunch, sitting next to each other at the table in the small dining area off the kitchen. After lunch, they cleaned up, and Mike went to get the heating pad, and a refill of coffee.

"All right—let's get this shoulder warmed up." Mike sat on the couch, heating pad on shoulder. "The beach tomorrow sounds like just the thing. But—can you grab that calendar off the bulletin board there? I have a nagging feeling about something …"

Johnny brought the calendar over.

"Shit, yeah, thought so. I have to go to some school thing with Serena at four."

Johnny shrugged. "That's okay—I probably oughta do some errands around then anyhow. Wanna just hit the beach first thing in the morning, and come back at like two? It gets awful hot by then anyhow."

"Sure you don't mind? I could cancel with Serena, if it's a problem..."

"Hey." Johnny sat on the coffee table right in front of Mike. "Look. You have a good deal worked out with Serena, right? I'm not gonna waltz in and mess that up. What would be the point of that?"

"Thanks," Mike said softly. "I guess I'm not used to, um, flexibility." He twisted to adjust the heating pad on his shoulder.

"Yeah, sounds like not." Johnny said, hopping onto the back of the sofa and helping with the heating pad. "Hey, here's an idea—does Serena's real girlfriend need a fake boyfriend?"

Mike, having just taken a sip of coffee, unfortunately laughed out his nose. "Who, you? Oh good lord, that would be … no. Let's just say, nobody would believe it for half a second. If even that long." He shook his head, chuckling. "Nope, Johnny, it was a good idea, but, well, you'll see."

"Um, see what?"

"Let's put it this way. Marilyn's a gym teacher. She's six feet tall, weighs probably one-eighty—was a big-time college rower at UCLA—and could probably knock either one of us on our asses in two seconds flat. She practiced with me last time I had to recertify on the department's physical agility test, and she would've been able pass with flying colors. I guess she's not bad looking, but, she's not a waifish blonde—not by a long shot. So, unless you've had a sudden and drastic change in your 'type,' nobody'd buy it."

"Well, I dunno, Mike; maybe that's why I've been so quiet about my mystery date. Remember what Roy said about Joanne thinking maybe whoever it was fell way outside my 'type?' So maybe I've been hushing up that I'm dating an Amazon warrior." Johnny hopped back down to a normal seat on the couch.

"Okay, Amazon, maybe; but warrior? You've definitely never met Marilyn—she's actually really quiet and shy, and doesn't come across at all butch." Mike looked thoughtfully at Johnny. "You know, though, on second thought, crazy as it sounds, this idea is growing on me. Lemme run it past Serena tomorrow. Who, by the way, is going to need to know about you and me."

Johnny shrugged. "Fine by me—she's probably got the keeping-a-secret thing down pat."

"And she's gonna be damned amused, too." Mike unplugged the heating pad, and stretched his shoulder again. "For a while, a few months ago, she kept trying to convince me to test the waters with you, so to speak."

"Well, come on in, the water's great," Johnny leered at Mike.

"Oh, no," Mike laughed, "you're the one who's supposed to be keeping me on track with my PT, right? I wouldn't want to have to explain to Carol that I didn't do my exercises because my boyfriend was keeping me too busy with other things."

"Okay, later, then," said Johnny. "For now, boring old passive range of motion. Ready?" He took hold of Mike's upper arm gently, kissing his shoulder joint.

"Yeah. I like your way a lot better than Carol's, you know."

"Say when," Johnny said, raising Mike's arm straight out to the side. The arm passed the horizontal point, and Johnny stopped as he heard and felt a pop.

"'s okay," said Mike. "It's just doing that a lot these days. Keep on going."

Johnny continued to raise the arm, well past horizontal, through an entirely normal range of motion. "Wow," he said. "That's the whole range, Mike. That's really great! How far can you do it on your own?"

Mike grinned. "Most of the way. Watch." And he did it. "Still pretty weak, though."

"What've you got for weights?" asked Johnny. "Gotta start with that, since you can actually move it."

"Got a whole bunch of stuff in the far bay of the garage," said Mike, "if you don't mind going out there and grabbing—no, actually, let's just go out there."

Mike led Johnny out the side door and through the short breezeway between the house and the double garage. "The garage was an add-on, about five years before I inherited this place. Takes up half the lot, but it's worth it."

In the back of the second bay, Mike had a good set of dumbbells of various weights, an adjustable bench and rack, and a bar and a set of plates for the really heavy work.

"Right on!" said Johnny. "I didn't know you had all this stuff!"

"Yeah, I've been picking it up over the ten years I've lived here."

"Ten years? Yeah, you said something about inheriting this place—what's the story there?"

"Well, to make a long story short, I had this uncle who was a firefighter. He was my dad's brother. No wife or kids. He wrote into his will that the house would get split equally among any nephews who were firefighters at the time of his death, or else get sold and the proceeds would go to the Widows and Children's fund. He died young of a heart attack, and I got the house."

"Wow," said Johnny. "I always kinda wondered how you could afford to own a house, even a small one like this, in this neighborhood."

"Yeah—it was a lucky break. The taxes are a bitch, so I pretty much pay like a monthly rent into an escrow account so I don't screw myself."

"Smart. And speaking of smart …" Johnny picked up a five-pound dumbbell and handed it to Mike. "No pain, no gain is a stupid way to think about getting yourself fit again after an injury. You hurt yourself again, and you go backwards, not forwards." He looked at Mike, and continued. "You know what to do, right?"

"Yep." Mike worked his way through a series of exercises for strengthening the shoulder muscles weakened by extended disuse. He diligently did three sets of each exercise, and then, scowling, handed the small weight back to Johnny. "I don't see how I'm _possibly_ going to be back to work in three weeks. I can barely imagine setting up a step-stool, let alone throwing an extension ladder. Or starting a K-12. Opening a fucking hydrant, especially some of those really stiff new ones? And working with a charged line? Forget it." He huffed in frustration.

"Well, one thing I've learned is that just starting to get strong again is the most frustrating part. Now that you've got the movement back, you'll use those muscles more. And you'll see—you'll be up to ten pounds in a couple of days. And then it'll go faster than you think. But you're done for now. I look into my crystal ball, and here's what I see: two aspirin, and ten minutes of ice on that shoulder. Then at least an hour hangin' around in the hammock, you an' me, all squished up together. Then beer and pizza."

They followed Johnny's prescription, and both felt better afterwards.

"How 'bout I go pick up that pizza we were talkin' about, and grab some beer, and we can see what's on TV," said Johnny.

"Great – there's a menu on the fridge for a great little hole-in-the-wall pizza place. It's just around the corner, and there's a store next door where you could pick up the brews."

"Oh yeah, I passed this place on my way here. Anything you hate on pizza?" asked Johnny, grabbing the menu.

"Nah—surprise me," Mike suggested.

"Ooooh, that sounds like a challenge. Maybe I'll save the really good surprises for later, though." Johnny grabbed the keys to the Rover.

"Hey, Johnny? Can you get some actual _good_ beer?"

"Uh, like Budweiser, or whaddaya mean?"

"No, I mean _not_ Bud, _not_ Miller, _not_ Pabst."

"Um... help me out here, Mike. Name some names."

Mike rattled off four or five brands, while Johnny just stood there, keys in hand.

"Never heard of 'em. C'mon, Mike, it's just beer!" Johnny complained.

"Okay, so you know I'm picky about my coffee, right? Now you know I'm picky about my beer, too. I'll drink whatever when I'm with the gang, but at home? I just like what I like," Mike said firmly.

Johnny shook his head. "All right, but I'm gonna get some plain old regular for myself, too. Don't like to get fancy. See you in a few," he said.

"Hang on a second." Mike grabbed his wallet and held a tenner out to Johnny.

"Nah, you get it next time."

As Johnny headed out the door, Mike heard him mutter, "_Good_ beer. It's just _beer_, for cryin' out loud."

Mike smiled at this. He didn't have any illusions that Johnny would like, or even try, any of the obscure or foreign brews he preferred. And he was glad—glad that Johnny was just going to be himself, and let Mike be himself. No pretending, no trying to change the other person.

Mike grabbed a magazine from the rack next to the couch. A firefighting publication. Nope—he put it back. _Sports Illustrated_. He put that back, too. _Life_ magazine—that was more like it. No pressure. He re-adjusted the ice pack, and settled in with his magazine.

Yet again, he didn't read a word. He sat there on his couch, grinning like an idiot, thinking about surprises. He and Johnny had already surprised each other a couple of times. Mike—well, Mike had been supremely surprised that Johnny was interested in men in general, and him in specific. And, he'd been surprised how nonchalant and flexible Johnny seemed about everything. It was a far cry from the days with Larry, where everything had to be _his_ way; where any change of plans, any bump in the road would set off an argument. Not even an argument—just increasingly quiet resentment, laced with backhanded remarks. Larry had needled Mike mercilessly about his anxious tendencies, whereas Johnny took it all in stride and tried to temper the Stoker anxiety with the Gage flexibility.

And Mike realized he had surprised Johnny, too. That morning, when Johnny had planned to come straight to Mike's house after the all-nighter shift but had needed to go home, Johnny seemed surprised and touched by Mike's offer to pretty much come over and take care of him. Mike had the distinct impression that none of the people Johnny had ever been involved with took their time with him, paid attention to what he really needed, or, well, took care of him at all. Or, possibly, that Johnny didn't let people get close enough to do that. Probably a combination, Mike decided.

Johnny had said he had a tendency to push people away, rather than letting them in. So far, Mike hadn't felt any pushing. Not even any blocking, or resistance. If anything, what he was feeling was a bit of gentle tugging. And he liked it. A lot.

After he gloated silently for a while, Mike picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.

A voice replied on the other end.

"Hey, Serena, it's Mike. Boy, have I got some news for you!"

~!~!~!~!~

Johnny placed the order at the counter of the small pizzeria, and went through an alley to the store where Mike had suggested he go for beer. He grabbed a six-pack of something plain for himself, and then went in search of one of the brands Mike had mentioned. He turned the corner to an aisle with a shelf labeled "Specialty Beers," and figured this was the place.

Yep.

Probably twenty kinds of stuff he'd never heard of, and all of the ones on the list Mike had rattled off. He grabbed one at random, and went to the register to check out.

The clerk, wearing a white name-tag that said "ROBERT," sat lazily at the counter. A glint of light from one of the neon displays in the window reflected off one of his earrings, contrasting with the black cat that was perched on the edge of the counter. Johnny scratched it behind the ears. "Bet you keep the mice away, dontcha?" he said to the animal.

"Lemme guess," the clerk said, "one six is for you, and one's for your friend."

"Yeah," Johnny said, looking up from the cat. "How'd you know it wasn't just for me?"

"Because, pal, no _one_ person would drink both of these brews. Just wouldn't happen. In fact, I'll bet this Bud's for you, right?"

"How do you figure that?" Johnny said suspiciously.

The clerk handed Johnny his change. "'Cause there's only one guy in this neighborhood who buys that other stuff, and you ain't him."

Johnny pocketed his change, and grabbed the six-packs. "Well, you guessed right," he said on his way out.

The clerk watched him leave. "No, sirree, you ain't him, and boy, do I wish I _was_. 'Cause mm, mmm," he said to the cat sitting on the counter.

~!~!~!~!~

Johnny put the beer on the floor of the passenger's seat, and the pizza he'd just picked up on the seat itself. He hoped Mike wouldn't mind the extra onions on the sausage-pepper-onion pizza, but heck, he'd said surprise him, and they'd both be eating it anyhow. And, clever boy that he was, Johnny had stowed a toothbrush in his backpack.

He drove the short distance back to Mike's place and parked the Rover in the driveway. He grabbed the pizza and stacked the two six-packs on top, and slammed the car door shut with his foot. Johnny debated briefly whether he should ring the bell or not, and decided not. He balanced the whole load on one forearm and walked in, kicking his shoes off at the door. He was surprised to hear Mike laughing. Johnny set the pizza on the counter, tossed the beer in the fridge, and went to the living room to investigate.

"No, I'm _not_ shitting you. Geez, you were pretty much daring me to ask him out, and now you don't believe me? Hang on, he just got back. I'll put him on."

Mike handed the receiver to Johnny, who took it and looked at it blankly.

"It's Serena," said Mike. "She doesn't believe me."

"Ah," Johnny said, grinning. "Well, I'll fix that real quick." He held the receiver up. "Hey, Serena, it's John Gage. Sorry I stole your fake boyfriend."

Mike laughed, and leaned towards the receiver. "Told you so!" he shouted.

Johnny listened, and then replied, "Well,_ I _don't know how I can prove to you it's really me. I dunno, ask me something."

A pause.

"A beat-up old white Land Rover."

Another pause.

"Who, Roy? He calls me a lot of things, actually, but you're probably thinking of 'Junior.' Is that good enough?"

Serena said something that Mike couldn't quite make out, that made Johnny's jaw drop for a second, and brought out a deep blush, before he was back to his toothy grin.

"Well, that was a pretty darned direct question, so I'll give you a nice direct answer, which is yes, fantastic, absolutely, very much so, and thank you _very_ much for checking up on that extremely personal topic."

Johnny laughed at Serena's next question.

"I haven't gotten any complaints from him so far—here, ask him yourself."

Johnny shook his head as handed the receiver back to Mike. "Very direct, isn't she?" he commented to Mike.

"He says you're very direct," Mike said into the phone. "What is it that I'm not complaining about?"

It was Mike's turn to blush. "No, definitely not complaining."

Johnny grinned—he knew exactly what Serena was asking, since he'd just been polled himself.

"Jesus Christ, no, I will _not_ give you details, woman! Sheesh, go find your girlfriend if you want someone to talk dirty to you, you maniac."

Serena said something else on the other end of the line.

"No, I haven't forgotten—four o'clock, right? Yep. See you then, Bye," he said, and hung up the phone. Mike looked over at Johnny. "Yep, she's nothing if not direct, that's for sure."

"You can say that again." Johnny shook his head. "Geez. Anyhow—let's eat. It's early, but I'm starved."

"Okay—can you grab plates and beers?"

"Yep." Johnny sprang into action. "Oh yeah, I got you some of that weird beer. I hope it's okay with pizza. Guy at the store said he could tell the Budweiser was mine, since, how'd he put it? Oh yeah, only one guy in the neighborhood buys this other stuff, and I ain't him."

Mike laughed as he set the pizza on the cooktop and opened the box. "Did he hit on you?"

"Oh, he would've for sure if I just had the Bud, but I'm thinkin' he figured I was busy. With you. You know him?" Johnny popped the top on his Bud, and carefully poured Mike's odd-looking brew—it was practically _black_, for crying out loud—into a glass, just figuring that would be the thing to do.

"Nah, he just knows I buy the unusual stuff. Don't think I'm his type," said Mike, dishing slices up onto plates. "Is this _extra_ onions? What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking it would be good, and that we're both eating it, and that we both have toothbrushes."

"Touché," Mike conceded. "And bon appetit."

"Aw, just chow down, fancy pants," Johnny said around a mouthful of pizza. "Yeah, that hits the spot."

"So," Mike said, after they'd worked on their dinner for a bit, "we could watch a movie on TV after dinner, or something. There's actually two on tonight—_Jaws_, and _Dirty Harry_."

Johnny wrinkled his nose. "_Jaws_? Seriously? Don't you puke when you see blood?"

"Uh, it has to be _real_ for that to happen, and thanks for bringing that up while I'm eating. It's partly the smell, and luckily on TV there's no smell-o-vision, but I suppose that by the year 2000 they'll have that, huh?"

"Who knows. But I get enough blood at work, man. How 'bout _Dirty Harry_? Not that there's _no_ blood there, but at least it's not actually _about_ gory stuff as the main point. Plus, watching _Jaws_ the night before we're gonna go to the beach? Maybe not such a hot idea."

"Okay." Mike smiled, watching Johnny reach for another slice of pizza.

"What?" asked Johnny, grinning back at Mike around his mouthful of pizza.

"Oh, I guess I just like watching you eat. It's pretty impressive."

"Well, I learned if I don't eat fast, everyone's always waiting for me, then I get embarrassed, and then I quit eatin', and then I starve. Chain reaction, ya know?"

Mike took a sip of his dark black beer. "That's the ticket," he said. "Wanna try it?"

"Sure," said Johnny, surprising Mike. Mike passed him the glass, and Johnny took a sip. "Huh. It's not bad, exactly, but isn't really what I think of as beer."

"Well, I guess we're even, then. You know what they say in Europe about American beer?" Mike asked.

"No, what?" Johnny reached for a third slice.

"It's like having sex in a canoe," Mike said, deadpan.

"Huh?" Johnny crinkled his eyebrows.

"Fucking close to water," Mike completed the old joke.

Johnny snorted. "Well, to each his own," he said.

They made short work of the pizza, cleaned up what little there was to take care of, and hit the couch to watch_ Dirty Harry_.

As Mike guessed, Johnny fell asleep after ten minutes. Mike managed to arrange Johnny across his lap without waking him, and was content to watch the movie while holding on to Johnny. He combed through and smoothed Johnny's hair with his left hand, while his right hand rested on Johnny's chest, moving with the slow rise and fall of his breathing.

Amazingly, Johnny slept through the entirety of the film, waking slightly only once, to smile up at Mike, and intertwine their fingers over his chest, before dozing back off again.

When the movie was over, Mike tried his best to shift Johnny without waking him, so he could turn off the TV before the annoying nightly news came on, and take a trip to the bathroom. Johnny stirred on the couch, but showed no real signs of alertness, so Mike shut off the TV and used the facilities. He washed up, and brushed his teeth—extra onions, he remembered—and then popped into the bedroom to change into comfy flannel pants and a t-shirt.

While he was changing, he wondered what to do about Johnny. Frankly, since neither of them had to be up in the morning, he wanted that man in his bed, _right_ _now_, and not asleep on the couch. Because he had some plans. But he wasn't sure it would be fair to just drag Johnny into his bedroom and have his way with him, if he really needed to sleep. He decided to squeeze onto the couch with Johnny to see what would happen. Nothing bad, he was sure.

Mike headed back to the living room couch—but no Johnny. _Huh, _he thought. _Did he go out to the car? _He flopped down onto the couch, and consulted his anxiety lobe. No, he decided, there was no reason that Johnny would've left.

Then Mike heard the sound of the toilet flushing, and the water running in the bathroom for a couple of minutes. Johnny exited the bathroom looking wide awake, the smell of toothpaste trailing him. He looked left down the short hallway and saw Mike on the couch. He headed to the living room, and knelt in front of Mike.

"Whatcha doin' in here, Stoker?" Johnny said breathily. "There's a much better room for us to be in right now."

"I was just looking for you," Mike said seriously.

"Ya found me. Or, I guess, _I_ found _you_." Johnny laced his fingers together behind Mike, and pulled forward gently. "You gonna get moving, or do I have to carry you?"

Mike laughed aloud at the image of John Gage carrying him into his bedroom and having his way with him. The man was just crazy enough to do it, he thought. Unlike how it was shown on TV, it was pretty darned difficult to pick up and carry someone who outweighed you. But he knew Johnny was certainly capable of it.

"Okay, carry it is," Johnny said, before Mike had even completed his mental picture. He stood up, made sure he was grabbing Mike's good arm, and hauled Mike to his feet swiftly. As soon as Mike was on his feet, Johnny turned himself slightly, bent at the knees and waist, and pulled Mike over the top of his back, with Mike's right arm and right leg ending up over Johnny's chest. Mike yelped in surprise as he was quickly carried down the hall and dumped unceremoniously onto his own bed.

Panting from the exertion, Johnny pounced onto the bed himself and looked smugly down at Mike. "You can't say I didn't warn you!"

"You are completely insane," Mike laughed up at Johnny, "and I love you, you maniac!"

Mike looked Johnny up and down, carefully, from the top of his mussed head, to his long-sleeved t-shirt, down his painted-on jeans, to his bare feet.

"You're not on shift tomorrow," Mike remarked solemnly.

"Nope." Johnny lay on his side, elbow on the mattress, supporting his head with one hand. "Don't have to do a damned thing tomorrow."

"Good."

**TBC**

A/N: You will see "ROBERT" again later, in a heroic moment.


	7. Out With the Old

**Out With the Old**

_Thursday, 0725._

Hank Stanley was a little earlier than usual for his shift. He was already in his blues, so he skipped the locker room and headed straight through the apparatus bay towards the office. The engine and the squad were both out—he'd have to check the call station log to see what kind of run they were on. But first things first. He headed to the kitchen to get coffee—he could smell a fresh pot. Either C-shift had just brewed some before their run, or somebody on his shift was _really_ early. Or, Cap thought, as he headed for his office, his expected visitor/non-visitor was his usual early self.

Cap heard sounds coming from the office, so he went to see if it was who he thought it would be.

Tap, tap, tap.

"Shit."

Tap, tap, tap. Ding!

It was. Mike was hunched over the typewriter, bottle of white-out in his hand.

"Well, well, well, make yourself right at home, Stoker," said Hank,

Mike nearly jumped out of his skin. "You sure know how to sneak up on a guy, Cap," he said, once he recovered. "Just getting started on my transfer request. Nobody was here, so …"

"No problem, Mike. Carry on. I gather you made the coffee, since nobody else is here?"

"Yep. Figured I might as well."

"Great," said Hank. "I'll go grab some if you don't mind. Be right back." He made it to the kitchen this time, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He had a sip—yep, definitely Stoker-made coffee—and headed back to his office. He nearly collided with Johnny in the kitchen doorway.

"Hey, Cap!" Gage said cheerfully.

"Mornin', Gage," Cap replied. "You're here awfully early—again. How were your days off?"

"Just great, Cap, just great. I went to the beach yesterday morning, and hardly anyone was around, it being a Wednesday and all. Every now and then this crazy shift business has its advantages. How 'bout you?"

"Can't complain. Tuesday was a bust, of course, after a shift like that, but I had a nice, boring, quiet day at home yesterday. Jane and I actually went out for a lunch date—can't remember the last time we did that." Cap decided to sit at the table with Johnny to have his coffee—no sense in looking over Stoker's shoulder as he typed.

"So, uh, Mike's in your office doing his transfer request," Johnny said. "He told me about that the other day. Sounds like a good move for him, all in all, but, well, I guess he's gotta do it."

"Yep, I startled him in the office. I wasn't _trying_ to sneak up on him, but you know how he is."

"Sure do, Cap. I sure do." Johnny said, trying, and failing, not to smile like an idiot.

"Oh, boy. Chet's gonna be starting right in on you again this morning, I bet."

They sipped their coffee for a bit.

"Well," said Johnny, "I guess I'll get started on the dorms. Give ol' Roy a heart attack by getting' a head start. Unless you had somethin' else you wanted me to work on for chores?"

"All yours, John. I'll just let Mike work in peace. I don't think it'll do his typing any good to have me looking over his shoulder."

Johnny put his cup in the sink, and left the day room. Cap took his coffee over to the couch, and read a magazine, enjoying the peace and quiet for a few minutes. He chuckled as he heard Mike swearing quietly from the office—the white-out would be getting a work-out, he thought. A little before 0800, he went back to the office, thinking Mike must surely be nearly done with his form. There hadn't been any swearing for a minute or two, which was a good sign.

Cap stepped into the office. Mike was still sitting in the desk chair, his back to the door. Johnny was looking over Mike's shoulder—it looked like they must both be reading over the transfer form. Cap decided to let them finish reading before announcing his presence. He leaned up against the doorway, waiting patiently until they finished looking over the form.

"What's that box for?" Johnny asked Mike.

"What box?" Mike asked, looking up and back.

Cap winced as Johnny put his hand on the back of Mike's chair and leaned down over Mike's shoulder, pointing to a box on the form. All the guys knew that Mike didn't like people getting too close—and Johnny was usually pretty good about staying outside of the invisible bubble Mike seemed to keep around himself, even though with other people, Johnny was constantly in their faces. Cap was waiting for Mike to cringe, or quietly lean away, but it didn't happen—even though Johnny was leaning right over his shoulder, and they were practically ear to ear.

"Oh—that one," Mike said, leaning back in his chair, his shoulder falling right into Johnny's hand on the back of the chair.

Johnny didn't move his hand, and Mike didn't flinch or pull away.

But Hank Stanley was rocked to his core, as a dozen pieces of a very heavy puzzle he didn't even know he was working on fell into place at once. He could tell Mike was answering Johnny's question, but the words didn't even register as he processed what was going through his head. He stepped the rest of the way into the office, and clicked the door closed behind him.

"Oh, howdy, Cap," Johnny said.

"I guess I'm done with the form, if you want to look at …" Mike trailed off as he took in the look on Cap's face.

"I'll look at it in a minute. Sit down, John." Cap said, with extreme calm, as he himself sat in another chair that was lurking in the office.

"Huh? But shouldn't I get back to—"

"I said, sit down," Cap said, barely loudly enough to be heard.

Johnny pulled a chair out from the side of the desk, and slowly sat down, never taking his eyes off Cap. Cap looked back and forth between the two men, in complete silence.

Johnny's eyes darted sideways to try to connect with Mike's, but Mike was staring at the floor.

"Pass me that form, Mike."

Mike silently handed the form to Cap, who looked it over carefully, nodding. He signed it, and passed it back to Mike without a word. Cap continued to stare at the two men sitting across from him.

"What's the real reason, Mike?" Cap asked. He again spoke so quietly that he was barely audible.

"Cap?" Mike asked.

"Your form, there, in the box for 'Reason for transfer request,' says 'decrease commute time; expand professional experience.' Those'll both happen—no question about it. But they're not _why_, are they."

Mike and Johnny finally looked at each other. Johnny cleared his throat, and opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out.

Everyone jumped as there was a knock on the door, and the door flew open. Chet stuck his head into the office. "Cap, do we have any—"

"Not now, Kelly," Cap said, not turning to look at Chet. "Close the door, please."

Chet backed hastily out of the office, and clicked the door closed without a word.

The three men resumed their stare-down.

After a painful minute, Mike finally broke the silence. "No," he half-whispered. "That's not the real reason."

"All right," Cap said softly. "And is the real reason what I think it is?" He watched closely as Johnny turned a shade that usually only appeared when he was already headed for a free stay at Rampart.

Again, Mike was the one to speak up. "If you mean a reason we could get fired for telling you, and that might make you never want to be in the same room with either of us ever again, then yes."

"Nobody's getting fired. And we're in the same room right now, aren't we?" Cap said, looking back and forth between the two men. "John? Am I right that the reason your head's been up in the clouds the last few shifts is sitting right next to you this very moment?"

Johnny cleared his throat again. "Yeah."

"Okay," Cap said. "That's fine."

Mike and Johnny both looked up.

"Fine?" Mike asked.

"It's none of my business. I don't understand it, but it's nobody's business but your own."

"You're not mad?" Johnny asked, wincing as he realized what a pointless and graceless question he'd asked.

"I'm not mad. I'm …" Cap searched for the words. "Well, I guess 'surprised' doesn't even begin to cover it, but it's a start."

Nobody said anything for another few seconds. "And, well, I'm disappointed," Cap continued.

Johnny inched lower in his chair, and Mike held his forehead in the palm of one hand.

"You're absolutely right that one of you had to transfer—and of course, Mike, I'm sorry to see you go. But what I'm disappointed about is that you didn't feel like you could say anything to me. I mean, you two both know me well enough that you should know I'm not some fragile Victorian flower. Right?"

Johnny nodded slowly.

"Cap," Mike said quietly, "we didn't want to put you in a bad position, by purposely telling you something you probably shouldn't know. I mean, I doubt the department would take kindly to—well, us."

Johnny nodded. "It's not that we don't trust you. We talked about telling you. It's just … well, like Mike said. It coulda put you in a bad position."

"All right." Cap nodded. "I can see that."

Nobody said anything for a few seconds.

"Sorry," Johnny said, finally. "We shoulda told you the truth."

"No," Cap said slowly. "I think, on further reflection, that you were right. But that's a moot point, now. And I don't even know what made me figure it out. Since it certainly doesn't exactly jump out at you, what with you being with Serena, Mike, and," he pointed to John, "you being _the_ most unstoppable skirt chaser I have ever worked with."

"Serena and I aren't actually a couple," Mike said softly.

"And I don't chase just skirts, for lack of a better phrase," Johnny added reluctantly.

"I … see," Cap said. _No, _he thought_, I really _don't_ see_.

Cap sighed. He could tell neither one of his men was going to say anything without being prompted, at this point, so he took the lead. "Okay, here's the deal, boys. Officially, I know nothing about this. Got it?"

"Got it," the two said in unison.

"Unofficially? I don't understand this whole thing, not one iota, but that's my problem, and I'll try my best not to make it yours, because I've said it before, and I'll say it again: what you do on your own time is none of my concern. Unless," he cautioned, one finger raised to emphasize his point, "it interferes with the job. So Mike, that's why I signed your transfer request just now. And John, I need your head out of the clouds on shift, all right?"

"Yessir," Johnny said sheepishly.

Cap inspected his junior paramedic. "Gage, I'll make you a deal," he said. "If you can behave normally—I mean, normally for _you_—I'll keep Chet off your back. Because his behavior has been getting a bit out of hand. And, quite frankly, I think that this … situation … is something that doesn't need to be the topic of speculation or betting. So I'll be shutting that right down."

"Uh, Cap? I should really fight my own battles, dontcha think?"

Cap lowered his brows at Johnny. "Gage, this isn't a schoolyard we're talking about. It's a fire station. And my job is to make sure that everything goes smoothly, and that everyone can work together well, for the primary purpose of keeping you guys safe. And since you're not really in a position to talk to Chet about why he just needs to lay the hell off, I can just plain make it an order. I mean, I'm sick of the constant nagging and needling, and it's not even directed at me."

Johnny finally looked up. "Okay, Cap. Thanks."

Hank looked at his men. They looked about as far from lovestruck as you could get—more like shell-shocked. "Just answer me one thing, boys."

"We'll try," Mike replied.

"Have you worked any shifts together while you were, um, involved?" Cap asked. "I don't mean to pry, but if you have, I've got to work on my observation skills."

"No," said Mike. "You didn't miss anything."

"Good," said Hank. _Whew_.

"And I have a question for you, too, Cap—if I may," Mike asked.

"I'll give it a whirl, Mike."

"Does Captain Sterling need to know about this?"

Cap considered the question. "I think I mentioned before that he's about as open-minded as they come. Knowing about … this … won't make a hill of beans of difference in how he views you. And like I said, officially, I don't know a thing about any of this. So no, I'm not going to say anything to him."

"Okay. Thanks," Mike said.

The three of them sat there awkwardly for another moment.

"Cap?" Johnny asked.

"Yeah, John?"

"What'd we do wrong? I mean, how'd you know?"

Cap sighed. "I don't really know. I guess … well, John, you were kind of standing closer to Mike than people do, ordinarily. And Mike, you weren't reacting. I know, that sounds strange—but that's all I saw. I don't think anybody who didn't know you both well would have noticed a thing. And that just made me think of a couple other little things—like how you two had already talked about the transfer."

Johnny sighed and looked at Mike. "I guess we need to take a lesson or two in careful, Mikey."

Cap shook his head. "Look, boys. You're doing fine. Tricia and Amy regularly accuse me of being, hmm, what did Tricia say the other day? Oh yeah—'Dad, you're worse than a hawk with binoculars—we can't get away with anything!' And I wasn't even totally sure about what I saw, all right? And rest assured, it's not leaving this room." He looked back at Mike and Johnny. "So this is what we're going to do now. I'm gonna give you boys the office for a few minutes, because frankly, you both look like you're about to throw up. Then, when you're ready, Mike, you come out to the day room, and you can talk to all the guys at once, like you mentioned the other day. All right?"

"Okay," Mike said. "And Cap? Thanks."

"No problem," Cap said. _At least, I hope it's not a problem_. He left the office, and closed the door on his way out.

~!~!~!~

Cap returned to the day room, and poured himself a cup of coffee. If he hadn't been at work, he certainly would have looked for something stronger to add to it. To add to his discomfort, Chet entered the room and pulled up a chair.

"I'm just gonna not ask you what was going on in there; how 'bout that," Chet said.

Cap nodded. "Good plan." He'd believe it when he saw it, though. Sure enough, Chet fulfilled his expectations in short order.

"What's Stoker doing here?" he asked.

"Paperwork," Cap said brusquely, shooting Chet a glare that meant business. He sincerely hoped Chet wouldn't ask why Johnny had been in the office, because he didn't have a good answer for that one.

"Oh," was all Chet said.

Chet graced Cap with another few seconds of silence.

"He's not comin' back, is he," Chet predicted glumly.

"No," Cap said reluctantly. "Not to us, at least. He's working on his transfer paperwork right now. And I'm sure he didn't want you guys to find out this way." He looked up at Kelly, and his expression softened as he realized Chet was genuinely upset. "Listen, I'm gonna put chores off this morning, and Mike can talk to all you guys at once, okay? For now, just sit tight, okay?"

"Okay, Cap," Chet said, for once not making an issue of something. "Gonna miss the guy. It's kind of nice to have someone around who you can always count on to keep their trap shut."

"Not to mention the little detail that he's the best engineer I've ever had the pleasure of working with," Captain Stanley added sternly.

"Yeah, that too," Chet admitted.

They drank their coffee silently for a minute or two, until Roy and Marco slumped into the day room. Neither one of them looked happy to be starting a shift.

"Morning, boys," said Cap.

"What's up, Cap?" asked Marco. "Who's in your office?"

"Stoker's here doing some paperwork. He'll be out in a minute, and then we all need to have a chat. So sit tight, okay? And," Cap checked his watch, "anyone seen Jackson? It's two minutes till roll call, which I think we'll just have here at the table today."

"Yeah, he's in the locker room," replied Marco. "But what about Gage? Looks like he's late again."

"Probably another hot date last night! Look out, Roy," Chet waggled his eyebrows. "Your partner's gonna be in la-la land again today! Just wait, guys; I'll bet he's got that just-got-laid look again this morning. And we'll hear some _real_ dreamy talking to the pillow tonight. Man, whoever she is, she's got him totally—"

"Enough!" This time, Cap's open hands slapped the table, hard enough to knock a stray spoon onto the floor.

Everyone at the table froze. Ed Jackson stood stock still, half through the doorway.

"_Enough_, Kelly! You will mind your own business. You will _not_ needle Gage about his love life. You will _not_ make insinuations or speculations, in or out of his hearing. You _will_ behave like an adult, not a teenager. We're already losing one crew member, and I don't want it to turn into two."

Everyone stared at Cap as if he'd grown another head.

"IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?" Cap shouted. Veins were popped out in his neck, and his face was red.

"Uh, yessir," said Chet. Captain Stanley had certainly chastised him before, but had never shouted at him in front of the whole crew. And he'd never looked so, well, pissed off.

Just in time for the fun, and, just in time for the 0800 shift to start, Johnny slid into the kitchen, looking like himself again. He stopped short when he saw the expressions on everyone's faces.

"Uh, good morning?" he said hesitantly.

"Sit down, Gage," Cap said tiredly. "Actually, belay that. Go get Stoker, and bring an extra chair from the office, and then we'll _all_ sit down."

Johnny didn't have to be asked twice. He spun on one foot, and left the silent kitchen.

Jackson sat at the table, not even daring to get himself a cup of coffee first.

Roy had an idea of what was coming. He brought the coffee pot and some mugs to the table, and started passing out full mugs to those who didn't yet have a cup, and topping off everyone else's. He put two full mugs at the empty spaces at the table.

Johnny came in with a chair, followed closely—but not _too_ closely—by Stoker, who silently handed his form to Captain Stanley again. Mike and Johnny sat next to each other at the table. But not _too_ close to each other.

Captain Stanley took the paper from Stoker, and cleared his throat. "All right, guys. Here's the deal. Some of you may have already heard that Mike here is requesting a transfer. I'm granting it. He'll probably be going up to 93s, up in the north part of the county." He looked around the room.

"Mike, we're all gonna miss you," Cap continued. "Can you fill the rest of the guys in on some of the reasons you're transferring?"

Mike looked around the room at the faces of the men he'd worked with for the last six years, and the new face, Ed Jackson, who would likely be his replacement. And, on Mike's left, the face he'd woken up to that morning.

"I'll really miss working with you guys. But you all know my place is almost 45 miles from this station, and you all know gas is up to almost a buck a gallon around here. And you all know the traffic is just getting worse and worse." The guys nodded and mumbled their agreement. "Plus, I'm at a point, career-wise, where I need to start thinking about what's next. And part of that means getting stretching my wings. Getting some broader experience. And, since I've been out for a while anyhow, this seemed as good a time as any for me to move on, I guess."

Stoker looked around the room again. "I've enjoyed working with all of you. A lot. You guys are the best team I've ever worked with, and I know part of the reason why is that we've all been working together for six years—and that almost _never_ happens in a department the size of ours. And I'm sorry to be the one that's breaking up the shift. I'll miss you guys—well, most of you, at least—but I really have to do it."

Marco, the only member of the A-shift who had no previous knowledge of this news, looked stunned.

"Man, Stoker, I'll really miss you," he said. "No offense, Ed." Jackson waved off Marco's apology. "But I can totally see why you need to move on. My commute's only half an hour right now, but it gets a few minutes longer every year. It must take forever from your place."

"Yep. An hour on the way in, and an hour and a half, sometimes more, on the way home, when I'm tired."

"Wow," said Chet. "I'm surprised you stuck it out that long. That'd make me crazy," said Chet.

"You're already crazy, Kelly," Mike said, uncharacteristically. "But yeah, it's long."

"Well, I'll miss you," said Chet, "but I totally get your reasoning. I'm glad Cap got you a good assignment, 'cause you're the best engineer I've ever had the pleasure of working with."

Cap rolled his eyes as he heard his own words recycled by Chet.

Roy cleared his throat. "We'll definitely miss you, Mike. You're a solid engineer, and a great guy. Our loss will be 93's gain." He looked over to Captain Stanley. "Any chance we can get Ed on the shift for good? I think we've all started to tolerate him all right," he said, winking at Jackson.

"Ed? That what you want?" asked Cap, who knew perfectly well Jackson was busting a gut hoping for the position.

Jackson nodded. "I know it's up to HQ, and not you, Cap, but I'd be grateful. You're a good bunch of guys."

"Okay, then," said Hank. "I'll get that paperwork in to HQ today too."

Naturally, it was Chet who noticed that Johnny hadn't said anything yet. "Your turn, Gage. Don't you have something nice to say to Mike, or are you too—" Chet stopped short as he caught Cap's glare. "—too bummed?" he amended hastily.

"C'mon, Chet, you know I never pass up the chance to make a speech!" Johnny announced. "But I promise to keep it short. Guys," he said, looking around the room, "I can really only echo what you already said—Stoker here is a solid engineer, and a great guy." He looked to his right. "Mike, we're gonna miss you around here. Things aren't gonna be the same, but I have a feeling everyone's gonna do pretty darned good. That's all."

Mike stared into his coffee cup. No, things were definitely not going to be the same. A brush fire, a cactus, a rainstorm, and an unexpected moment of truth between friends had changed everything forever. And he was glad.

~!~!~!~

The A-shift, including both the engineers, the outgoing and the incoming, was still seated at the table when the C-shift returned a few minutes later, filthy, sooty, sweaty, and exhausted from knocking down a house fire. A-shift took over the clean-up, hanging the hoses to dry on the tower, and washing the engine and the squad.

Stoker was finishing cleaning out his locker when Cap came into the locker room. "Mike, can I see you in my office for a minute before you go?"

"Sure, Cap. Lemme just throw this stuff in my truck, and I'll be right in." He took the nameplate off his locker, tossed it unceremoniously in the box, and took the box out to his truck and set it on the passenger's seat.

Johnny and Marco were just finishing hanging the hoses on the tower. Gage, of course, was at the top of the tower—he never missed a chance to climb up high. Marco was finishing straightening the hoses at the bottom of the tower. Mike shielded his eyes from the sun to watch Johnny as he descended from the hose tower.

"Cleaning out your locker?" Marco asked Mike, who then realized he shouldn't be watching the way he was.

"Yep."

"Sorry you're going, man. Had to happen, though, I suppose."

Mike smiled. "Yeah, it did, Marco. It really did. But listen, I'm hoping all you guys will come over to my place for one last bash next weekend. You're off Saturday and Sunday, right? How about Saturday night?"

"Sounds good, Mike. I'll be there," said Marco.

"Great!" Johnny interjected as he hit solid ground. "That's everyone except Cap, right, Mike?"

"Yep. I'll ask him now—he wants to see me in his office before I go. See you next weekend, Marco," Mike said as Marco headed indoors.

Johnny moved so he wasn't right between Mike and the sun. "So this is really it, huh?"

"Yep. Probably the last time I'll be in this station. Probably the last time I'll see Big Red."

Johnny didn't tease him—he knew that Mike was really attached to Engine 51. As well he should be—it arrived brand new at Station 51 a couple of years into Stoker's tenure as engineer, so Mike was her first caretaker. The Ward LaFrance, made in New York state, and shipped to California, still looked brand new.

"Jackson'll take care of her. And us," said Johnny, voicing the usually tacit understanding that the engineer, being the supplier of water, protected the rest of the crew. "He's green, but he's solid."

"Yeah, I know," said Mike. "But still. It's weird, you know? But I guess it's less weird than us working together," he admitted.

"Yeah," said Johnny. "I didn't really get it till today, how hard that would be. Like right now, for instance? I don't wanna just wave bye-bye to you when you leave for the last time. And the little party in the day room? That was tough for you, I know— and I wanted to kiss it all better."

"How 'bout the dorms?" laughed Stoker. "That'd be pretty grim, having Chet, Marco, Roy, and two brick dividers between us all night."

"Speaking of which—I'll call before lights out if I have a chance. If I don't, well, you understand," said Johnny, realizing how great it was that was true.

"Okay. Actually, would it be okay if I just stayed at your place tonight? I wanna meet you there in the morning after your shift anyhow, and there's no point in going back to my house just to sleep."

"Sure! That's great. Hopefully this shift will be—" Johnny stopped himself before he jinxed the whole shift by saying something only a probie would be dumb enough to actually say out loud.

Mike laughed. "Good catch. That was a close one." He looked at the building. "I oughta get to Cap's office. He wants to talk to me before I head out."

"All right. Cap said I should clean up the yard and parking lot before Roy and I go for supplies." He looked around the parking lot—nobody else was outside. "Love you," he said quietly.

"Love you too. I desperately want to kiss you goodbye," said Mike.

"Well, _I_ desperately want to throw you in the back of the Rover and have my way with you, but that's not gonna happen either. We'll just have to squeeze in some extras tomorrow morning," Johnny grinned back.

Mike left Johnny in the parking lot, and went in to the building to Cap's office. He went in the open door, and decided to close it.

"Have a seat, Mike," said Cap, gesturing to a chair. "There was one more thing I wanted to run past you. I was looking at your personnel file—your emergency contacts are your parents, and Serena. Now, I know where to reach you if something happened on this end. But if something happened when you were out at 93s?" Cap shook his head. "You really need to have Gage listed as an emergency contact, Mike."

Mike sighed. "No can do, Cap. We're just not ready to go there. But I had a thought along those lines, and Johnny's on board with it. It's not totally fair to ask you to be in the middle, but we were wondering if I could list _you_ as my emergency contact, so in case something happens on my end, they'll call you, and you can, uh, tell Johnny. If that works for you."

Hank nodded, slowly. "I think that's reasonable. Yeah, I can do that. In fact, why don't I do it right now?" He unlocked a filing cabinet, and pulled Mike's personnel file. He looked at the emergency contact name and number that was there already. "These are your folks, right? You leaving them on there?"

"Yeah. We don't talk much, because, well, you know. But yeah. Let's keep them, and add you. I guess—I guess we can take Serena off. She was really only on there so somebody besides my parents would be on there."

Cap made the change; Stoker signed on the line. Cap returned the file to the cabinet.

Cap drummed his pen on the desk, thinking. "Would you guys be okay putting yourself as John's emergency contact? Or do you want him to have me down for that as well?" He frowned. "Come to think of it, I think Roy and I are _already_ his emergency contacts. So never mind."

"That's what he said. He's got some distant cousins and such, but no close family," said Mike.

"Yeah, thought so," said Cap. He changed the subject. "When do the docs think you'll get back on the job? Would they say?"

"I saw Dr. Brackett on Monday. He said about three weeks."

"That's good. You'll be ready. But—" Cap hesitated. "How are you guys gonna work out the distance piece, if you don't mind my asking. I mean, 93s is way on the outskirts of the county, a good two hours from Gage's place. And your place isn't going to be any closer to here for Gage than it is for you."

"We're thinking about that. Since we're gonna be on the same shift, we'll probably just go to our own places after a bad shift, then catch up with each other not during rush hour. Whenever that is, anymore. We'll work it out," Mike said confidently. "I, uh, did feel kind of like an ass telling the guys I was transferring because of the drive, though, since half the time, I'll actually be driving _more, _when you figure the distance from 93s to Johnny's place."

"Well, what can you do, Mike? It wasn't a total lie; it was just a half-truth," Cap said.

"True," said Stoker. "Or, half true, as the case may be."

"So, ah, you'll get your reassignment paperwork at your home address. I would guess the date will be effective immediately, but the medical return-to-work authorization takes precedence, of course."

"Sure, Cap," said Mike. "Got it. And—by the way—a week from this Saturday, I'm hoping to have all the guys from A-shift over. Barbecue if the weather's good, pizza if it's not. Beer no matter what."

"Sounds good—I have to check with my social secretary, but nothing's ringing a bell off hand. That's a good idea—get everyone together one more time."

"Great." Stoker stood up. "I, uh …" he sat down again. "Cap, I can't tell you how much it means to both of us that you're, well, making the hard parts of this whole thing a little less hard. You could've given us a real hard time. But you didn't. And," Stoker looked down at his feet, "this is gonna sound a bit ridiculous, but—" he stopped. "Nope, too ridiculous. Never mind."

Cap frowned. "So you're gonna leave me hanging like this?" he said, only half joking.

Stoker sighed, and gave in. "All right. I know you feel kind of, well, fatherly towards Johnny. So I feel like I ought to tell you I'm gonna treat him right, take good care of him." He looked up, blushing. "Sounds silly, but I warned you."

Hank shook his head. "Doesn't sound silly at all, Mike. Not at all. And, I know you will. And I know he'll take care of you, too."

"Yeah." This time, Stoker stood up for real. "I oughta go. Got some errands, then PT at Rampart."

"All right. I'll let you know for sure about next Saturday, after this shift, okay?"

"Great. Thanks." And Stoker exited the office, into the apparatus bay.

Jackson was just finishing drying Engine 51. Mike watched approvingly as Ed swiped over the chrome bumper with the cloth, one extra time, and then carefully dried off the dials, gauges, knobs, and switches that made everything work. He took one last look at the engine that had been his pride and joy for four of his six years at his home away from home, turned quickly, and left Station 51 for the last time.

**TBC**


	8. In WIth the New

**Chapter 8: In With the New**

_Three weeks later: Friday, 0630._

"Mike—you gotta eat _somethin'_. You can't show up to your first shift at 93s on an empty stomach."

"I know, I know. I just feel crappy, is all. Like I'll puke it all back up again if I try to eat."

Johnny sighed. "Look—I'm not gonna tell you to just relax—'cause I know it's not that easy."

"So don't even _say_ 'just' when you say 'relax,' if you know it's not that easy!"

"All right, all right! Don't get all bent outta shape." Johnny plopped two pieces of bread into the toaster and pushed the lever down. "I'm just tryin' to help, is all."

"Sorry," Mike said. "I didn't mean to snap at you. Again. I know you're trying to help. I mean, you _are _helping. See? You're making toast. Which is about all I think I can manage." He added his own sigh to the one Johnny let out earlier. "Seems like you're always taking care of me."

Johnny snorted. "Well, you know me, Mike. You'll get your turn. That's pretty much guaranteed."

All of Johnny's major accidents, illnesses and injuries flashed through Mike's head at once, and he shuddered. "I hope not, babe. I really hope not."

Johnny changed the subject quickly, as he could see the anxiety lobe kicking into high gear.

"So, you'll hafta tell me all about everything. I guess I can call you, right, since nobody knows who I am. Is that okay, if I do that?"

"Of course. What do you want to be?"

Johnny tilted his head. "Be?"

"Yeah. Pretend you're calling me. Someone answers the phone. 'L.A. County Fire Department Station 93, Firefighter So-and-so speaking.' What do _you_ say?"

Johnny played along. "Uh, this is John, can I speak to Mike Stoker please?"

"_Wrong_. A guy, calling another guy? You've gotta have a reason. Otherwise, it's weird."

Johnny thought about that. "Huh. Yeah, I guess it is. I didn't think of that."

"Trust me," Mike said. "I've played this game for a long time. So—what do you want to be? Other than my hot, sexy, firefighter/paramedic boyfriend, and my own personal rescue man? 'Cause I don't think that'd fly."

Johnny laughed out loud. "Prob'ly not." The toast popped up, and Johnny buttered it and put it on a plate for Mike.

"See? Taking care of me again."

"Any time," Johnny said. "So—can I fib?"

"Fib?"

"Yeah. I could fib, and say I'm your housemate. Then it's not weird if I call, right?"

"It's not exactly a fib, either," Mike pointed out. "I mean, when was the last time we didn't stay at the same place, unless you were on duty?"

Johnny thought about it. "Day before the camping trip?"

Mike grinned. "Yep. So let's say it's not a total fib." He munched on his toast.

"Okay," Johnny agreed. "I'll try you between dinner and lights out. And—well, the way 51's shifts have been lately, I prob'ly oughta just plan on going home and having a nap after I get off, so maybe you could try me when you get home? Or, if you end up staying late, before you go?"

"Yeah—those both sound good. Just wouldn't do for me to call 51s asking for you all the time."

"Nope."

"But I _could_ call, and if it's not you, or Cap, or Roy, I could hang up!"

"Now _that's_ borderline, Mikey."

"I was kidding, you idiot."

"I know." Johnny noted that Mike had finished his toast. "You feeling better?"

"Yeah. Thanks. I guess toast is a good insecticide."

"Um …"

"Got rid of those butterflies in my stomach, didn't it?"

Johnny looked askance at Mike.

"Yeah," Mike sighed. "I know. Borderline."

"Wasn't gonna say it!" Johnny looked at the clock. "Shit! I gotta go, babe! And so do you."

"Yep," said Mike, "finally."

Johnny was already in his blues, to save time. He grabbed his keys from Mike's counter, and stood toe to toe with Mike. He snaked his hand around Mike's neck, and kissed him gently.

"You're more than ready," he said. "And you'll do great."

"You're right," said Mike. "You have a safe shift, okay?"

"You bet. You too. I'll talk to you tonight. Or in the morning."

"Okay. Bye." After one last kiss, Mike sent Johnny out the door. He picked up a box, neatly packed with everything he could possibly need in his new locker, and headed out the door himself.

Mike and Johnny had made the drive to Station 93, at this same time of day, the previous day. They didn't go in, but just parked across the road and checked the place out. Mike had wanted to time the drive, and Johnny had wanted to have a mental picture of where Mike would be spending his shifts.

From the outside, Station 93 looked just like Station 51, except a mirror image. Mike had been glad to see that 93s was one of those new drive-through stations, with a driveway that looped around to an entrance in the back of the apparatus bay. That suited him fine. Engineers prided themselves on their skills in backing their apparatus, but in Mike's book, it was silly to do something tricky like that if you didn't have to.

Today, though, he wouldn't be driving; he'd be pulling a shift as a regular fireman. The engineer from 93s still had another week until he started his captaincy at a different station. On the one hand, Mike looked forward to learning about the quirks and tricks of his new engine from someone who knew her well, but on the other hand, he didn't want to deal with the possessiveness and clinginess that he feared he'd unleashed on poor Ed Jackson, at Mike's one visit to 51s before moving on. _Oh, well_, he thought. Maybe Perkins, the current engineer at Station 93, wasn't as sentimental about equipment. He doubted it, though.

After an easy 40-minute drive, going the opposite direction from the rest of the cars on the road, Stoker pulled up into the parking lot of the station at a very comfortable 0725. Fortunately, Captain Sterling had thought to send him a key to the back door, since the previous shift was apparently out on a run, and the A-shift hadn't yet arrived. Stoker let himself in, and surveyed the new station. He was glad to have it to himself for a few minutes.

The station was laid out much like Station 51—a single-story structure with dorms for six, a two-slot apparatus bay, an office shared by all the Captains, and a reasonably spacious day room. Stoker decided to make himself at home. He put his box down on the kitchen table, and set about making a pot of coffee.

The kitchen was laid out exactly as in Station 51, except in a mirror image. _That was going to take some getting used to_, thought Stoker, as he turned to where the fridge should've been, and nearly went right out the back door instead. While the coffee was percolating, he headed to the locker room to stake a claim.

Fortunately, there were two empty lockers. Neither was in a prime location, but Stoker wasn't picky. It was just a locker, for crying out loud. He slid his nameplate, salvaged from Station 51, into the slot on the front of the locker, and unpacked his belongings. He changed into his blues, and, just as he closed his locker, he heard someone in the kitchen.

"Well, roll me in jam and feed me to the hogs!" exclaimed a strong baritone voice, lightly accented with what Stoker thought was probably a hint of the Deep South. "Someone's gone and made coffee already."

Stoker figured he should announce himself. He turned the corner from the locker room to the day room, trying to make some noise so as not to startle whoever was there already. He stepped into the room hesitantly.

"Aha! You must be Michael Stoker," said the man. He was of medium height, and had a mustache that reminded Mike of Chet. In fact, the man looked like he could be Chet's older, blonder brother. "Captain Leonard Sterling," continued the man. "You can call me Cap, or you can call me Len, but just don't call me 'sir,' and we'll do fine. Have a seat," he gestured to Mike. "And what do I call you, besides real damn early?"

Mike surprised himself with a complete and even slightly comical answer. "Uh, you can call me Mike. Or Stoker. Just not Michael, and we'll do fine."

Captain Sterling laughed a deep belly laugh. "Well, Hank didn't tell me you were the class clown. In fact, he said you weren't much of a talker at all. That true?"

Mike decided honesty was the best policy. "Let's just say I'm trying to work on not being such a clam," he said.

"Good," said Sterling. "It ain't healthy to be uncommunicative. Leastways that's what I think. Good coffee, by the way. Strong, but not over the top. You havin' some?"

"Yeah," said Stoker. "Only had one cup at home this morning, and that was a while ago." He had been watching when Sterling had gotten his own mug, so he got the right cabinet on the first try. "Any of these mugs private property?" he asked.

"Naw, no such thing 'round here. Anything personal, I tell the fellas to keep it in their lockers. No misunderstandings that way," he said.

Stoker sat back down at the table.

"So," said Sterling, "you and I oughta have a chat. Nobody's around, but we could still go to my office if that suits you better. Nobody else'll show up till two minutes before eight, though."

"Here's fine," Stoker said slightly nervously.

"Don't squirm, Mike—I don't bite." Sterling took a sip of his coffee. "Just want to get to know you a bit. What do you want to tell me about yourself?"

Mike had his story ready. "Well, I'll leave out everything from my personnel file, since you've read that already. I guess there's not too much to tell, actually. I was born and raised north of L.A., and my uncle Frank got me interested in the fire department. I spent two years at UCLA to keep my parents off my back, and then grew a pair and dropped out to do what I really wanted to do."

Sterling nodded. "I hear that from time to time. Good for you for following your heart, and not some imaginary sense of duty."

Mike laughed. "I hadn't thought of it quite that way, but I guess that's about right, isn't it."

"So, Mike—once Perkins moves up, you and I will be the only singles at the station. It's a pretty young crew, but somehow they all seem to have gotten themselves married off already."

"It happens," Mike said. He changed the subject, to avoid any further discussion on the relationships topic. "So, can you tell me about the rest of the crew? Beside they're young, and already settled down?"

Len chuckled. "Well, let me see. Ben Washington is your partner for the next few days. He's got four years on the job. Wife, two school-aged kids. Ben's a solid fellow, but can get to be a bit … overenthusiastic about plans and ideas at times. Always has some hare-brained scheme or another he's cookin' up. When that happens, we all just pat him on the head and say 'yes, Ben, that's a lovely idea, Ben.' And then he either shuts up, or not. Usually not. He seems to be one of these people who has to be either moving or talking, or both, all the time."

"I know somebody a little bit like that," Mike said, grinning. "Who else?"

"Henry Yang is our senior paramedic. He's excellent at his work. He was one of the first fellows who went through the fire academy mainly to become a paramedic with the department. Don't get me wrong—he holds his own in the fire/rescue business. But the medic business is really where his heart is. And he's got nearly three years of it under his belt."

Mike nodded. "Yang—is that a Chinese name?"

"Got it in one. Not so many Asians in the fire service, so he feels a little out of place at times. We try not to let him. Washington's black, and Velasquez—that's our other paramedic—he's from Mexico, originally. I'm from the deep, deep South—Georgia, if you can believe it. So Perkins and Armstrong—he's the guy you're filling in for now—are our only two plain old white-bread California boys. So we've got pretty much the whole rainbow here at Station 93. And we like it that way."

_Oh, if you only knew._ "Good deal, Cap. Sorry I'm not a green Martian, or something interesting like that."

The two men looked up from their coffee as they heard the apparatus bay doors opening.

"Ah, here comes the C-shift crew. And you'll get to meet your new engine. She's a fine one, lemme tell you. A lovely Seagrave, just a few years old—but why don't you go meet her in person."

So he did. Mike spent the rest of the daytime portion of the shift getting to know his new engine, and his new shiftmates, who, as Cap had promised, arrived just before roll call. Such as it was. Mike always thought Captain Stanley's roll call was an exercise in informality compared to some stations he'd been at, but Sterling managed to make the process seem even more relaxed, somehow.

And the Seagrave—she was a beaut. Mike was relieved not to be back to driving an open-cab model—that just never struck him as a good idea, and he'd been pleased when the old Engine 51 was replaced with a model that had a roof over his passengers' heads. He and Perkins spent over two hours just going over every detail, every quirk of Engine 93. Mike could see that Perkins was protective of her, but not at all reluctant to pass her along to her new protector. Mike made a mental note to himself to apologize to Ed Jackson for his possessiveness of Big Red.

The engine only had three runs all day—which they said was not all that unusual. Station 93's district was fairly remote and sparsely populated compared to 51's mostly urban and suburban district. But, unlike at 51s, the distances and response times to their destinations were appalling to Mike, who was used to a 5- or 10-minute ETA. The paramedics confirmed that it was a real problem in their district, especially since the nearest major trauma center, Henry Mayo, was ten miles to the south of the station, which meant transport time of over half an hour at times.

As luck would have it, their only time-consuming call came right in the middle of supper, and brought them back to the station just before lights out. So, Mike wasn't able to talk to Johnny.

Lights-out came and went. Stoker lay in his bunk, thinking about all the changes he'd been through recently. All good, but all changes. He would miss the tightness of 51's A-shift, but he already felt like he would be able to open up more at Station 93 than he had at his old home away from home. As Mike lay there, not sleeping, he realized he wasn't sure if that was because the people were different, or because he'd changed. _Probably both_, he thought. _Probably both._

~!~!~!~

At 0420, the tones sounded, jolting Mike to alertness. Their sound felt all wrong, but that would change with time. He collided with Yang when he went the wrong way from his bunk—the dorms were also a mirror image from 51's. The call was to a barn fire, in a rural area of the district. When they got there, the barn, which was full of hay and equipment, was fully involved, and all they could do was protect the exposures and surround and drown the fire. Mike was interested to see that the engine had to draft water from a pond—something Stoker almost never had to do in his previous fire district.

By the time they'd completed overhaul and salvaged what they could, which wasn't much, it was already well past 0800. When they returned to the station, the clock read 0910. Mike decided to call Johnny from the station, rather than waiting till he got home. He hung his gear on his rack to dry, and headed to the dorms to use the phone.

He dialed the number at Johnny's apartment. The phone rang, five times, six times. Mike was starting to get concerned, and didn't notice Captain Sterling come into the room.

Finally, Johnny answered.

"_Hello_?"

Mike could tell from Johnny's voice that he'd been sound asleep. "Hey, it's me. Sorry to wake you—you have a bad shift?"

"_Yeah. All-nighter._"

"Shit. Sorry. I'll show up at your place in a couple hours, okay?"

"_Yeah, tha's good. Hey, wait, everything good on your end_?"

"Just fine. We just had a long call; just got back to quarters a few minutes ago. Barn fire—might've actually been true spontaneous combustion from wet hay, too. And we had to draft water from a pond—but you're sleeping. I'll tell you later. Oh, and I'm okay for sleep—so how about I just stop at home real quick, and then head over to your place? You go back to sleep, okay?"

"'_kay. Love you._"

"You too. See you soon"

"_Great. Bye._" Click.

Mike hung up the phone, and, once again, went the wrong way in the dorm. This time, he yelped as he nearly collided with Len Sterling.

"Whoa, we're gonna have to start calling you Wrong-Way Stoker! I guess 51s is a mirror image of our station, huh? All these places built around that time have the same floor plan, but some are backwards. Go figure."

"I'll get used to it eventually," said Mike. "It is pretty disorienting, though. Everything's the same, but everything's different."

"And you just stumbled on one of life's great truths, Mike. And another one is, you can get the stink out of the man, but not out of the car upholstery. Looks like you're in a hurry to get out, but why don't you take five minutes to hit the shower before you get in your car. Truck. Whatever. You'll only get where you're going five minutes later, and whoever you were just talking to will thank you for it."

Mike laughed. "Yeah, I guess I was kinda rushing out. Or in, actually, since everything's backwards around here. All right, shower it is. Thanks, Cap. See ya next shift."

"Sure thing, Stoker. Have a good day off." Sterling watched as Mike turned around, and made his way to the locker room and shower. Sterling hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but it was sort of a public area. He'd overheard Mike asking whether someone's shift had been bad, and Mike had used enough fireman's lingo in his short conversation that he'd have been slightly opaque to someone who wasn't familiar with the fire service. Probably a nurse, he thought, since there weren't too many women in jobs with overnight shifts, otherwise. He wondered why Stoker hadn't mentioned his girlfriend, but he figured the topic would come up sooner or later.

~!~!~!~

It was a long drive from 93s to Gage's place—no two ways about it. Luckily, it was late enough in the morning that rush hour had mostly subsided. Over two hours after getting out of the shower at Station 93, and then stopping briefly at his house to pick up some things, Mike quietly let himself into Johnny's apartment.

Mike and Johnny had agreed a while back that no matter how tired they were after a long shift, neither one of them wanted to sleep past noon when they had only a single day off before the next shift. It was just too hard to get to bed on time otherwise, and being tired on a day off was nothing compared to pulling a 24-hour shift on too little sleep.

Stoker checked the clock—it was nearly noon already. He started a pot of coffee, and sorted through the fridge to see if there was something he could make a real breakfast out of. Stale bread and a few eggs—perfect for French toast. He cracked the eggs, beat them with some milk, and set the pile of bread in to soak.

Mike tiptoed into the bedroom, which was silly, really, since his purpose was to wake the man up. But there were better things to wake up to than noisy feet. Mike was glad to see a pile of clothing on the floor, and that Johnny was actually under the covers. He peeled the covers up gently, to slide in next to Johnny, and was glad to smell that he'd had time to shower after the all-nighter. Soot, Mike could handle; but some of the things the paramedics got covered in tended to be a little unnerving.

Mike snuggled against Johnny, who didn't stir in the slightest. He placed a cool hand on Johnny's extremely warm chest—nothing. He stroked that hand up and down, gently rubbing Johnny's bare chest and belly, and slowly, those extra-long eyelashes separated, and Johnny was awake.

"Hey," he mumbled. His eyelids drooped again.

"Hi, love. It's noon," Mike said.

"No, 's not," said Johnny, but he opened his eyes anyhow.

"Yeah, it is," said Mike. He held his wristwatch up in front of Johnny's none-too-alert face. "See?"

"All right, all right." Johnny sat up. He flopped back down again. "Gawd, I'm tired."

"Yeah, I see. You'll regret it tomorrow, though, if you go back to sleep. C'mon," he said, pulling Johnny back up again. "I made coffee, and I'll make us some French toast for breakfast. But you gotta get up."

"Okay, this is me, getting up." Johnny sat up for real. "And hey, this is you, back from your first shift at the new station!" he realized. "How'd it go?"

"You know what, Johnny? It was good. It was really, really good." Mike sat cross-legged on the bed, and watched as Johnny dressed. He told Johnny about Captain Sterling, his bluntness and his sense of humor, all delivered in Stoker's best imitation of Sterling's southern accent. He described the mirror image layout of the station, and the threat of the nickname Wrong-Way Stoker. He named and described all his new shiftmates, spending extra time on the paramedics.

"Yeah," said Johnny, "I've heard of Yang—he's supposed to be really good. He trained a couple years ago in the first class out of, uh, what's the hospital up in Santa Clarita?"

"Henry Mayo, I think they called it. I got the impression the whole name is longer," said Mike. "Can you believe their normal ETA to the hospital is usually half an hour?"

"It's a different world, in the rural areas," said Johnny. "Means the paramedics have to be all that much more on top of things, to keep a patient stable for such a long transport. We're really spoiled down here, being so close to Rampart."

"Yeah," said Mike, "but I'll bet there's things you and Roy see that they never have to deal with up there."

"True," said Johnny. "Gunshot wounds and forty-car pileups on the 405 come to mind. Wouldn't mind comparing notes with those guys sometime. Oh well," he said, dismissing the possibility.

Johnny sat at the kitchen counter, nursing his black coffee, while Mike found a skillet and started cooking up the French toast.

~!~!~!~

_A Saturday, several weeks later_

Station 93's A-shift had just finished washing and drying their vehicles, and was sitting down for supper. Stoker, now officially the shift's engineer, had made his spaghetti for the first time for this crew.

"Good stuff, Stoker," said Yang. "Gotta get your recipe, so I can have something decent to make when my wife isn't cooking."

"Sure," said Mike. "I'll write it down. It's easy."

"So, gentlemen: four days off. Whaddaya all have cooking?" asked Armstrong.

"Family time tomorrow," said Washington, "and then some good times at home when the kids are off to school on Monday."

His plans earned some catcalls and cheers.

"Communing with nature," said Sterling. "Heading to the hills, all on my own."

Yang, Velasquez, and Armstrong each summarized their own plans.

"And Wrong-Way, how 'bout you?" asked Armstrong. "If that grin on your mug means anything, I'd say you have some good times planned."

"Yeah," added Washington. "Maybe even as good as mine."

"I'm definitely looking forward to some time off," Stoker admitted.

"So, you got a girl, or what, Stoker?" Washington pressed. "You've been here six weeks, and you're still quite the mystery man.

Mike squirmed in his seat. He hadn't yet had to deal with quashing the details of his personal life with this crew. "Uh," he said.

He was rescued by Len. "No prying, boys."

Mike practically fainted with relief.

"Aw, I know, Cap," Washington said. "Sorry, Stoker."

"But just one teensy weensy thing," Armstrong continued, choosing to ignore his Captain's mild warning and his colleague's obvious discomfort. "Just a yes or no question. I got this cousin, see—and she's real pretty, and real single. Can I fix you guys up, or no?"

"Armstrong …" Sterling warned.

"It's all right, Cap." Mike knew he could handle that one. He had a nice, safe answer ready for that question. "Thanks, Armstrong, but no. I'm, uh, not really in a position to be dating right now."

"See?" Washington said. "_See?_ I _knew_ you had a girl. Aw, we'll get it out of you eventually, Stoker," he said.

_I doubt it_, Mike thought.

Len studied Mike, who once again looked like he wanted to fold up and disappear. "Leave it be, gents," he said to the crew. _And now, I'm starting to see what Hank meant about this fellow_, he thought.

BWAM, BWOOM; BWEEP BOOP! "_Engine 149, Squad 149, Station 93, multi-vehicle accident with injuries, Interstate 5 northbound, at the Castaic Lake State Recreation Area exit_..."

Chairs screeched backwards, as the men raced to their trucks, uncomfortable questions forgotten, for the moment.

Station 93 arrived a good fifteen minutes after Station 149, but had plenty to do, as there were four vehicles involved in the accident. Mike and Washington were assigned by 149's captain to cut up a vehicle containing one patient with multiple fractures and lacerations. Mike appreciated watching Henry Yang take care of the patient, from both inside the car while Mike and Ben worked on the extrication, and later, outside, after they'd backboarded the patient and removed him from the car. Yang was so small and nimble that he was able to start an IV on the patient, and administer pain medication, making the extrication much less difficult for the patient to tolerate. His calm, steadfast care for the patient reminded Stoker very much of Roy DeSoto's way of interacting with patients, and his treatment of the patient once he was extricated proved to Mike once and for all that Johnny and Roy weren't the only outstanding paramedics in the department.

After the crew returned to quarters, Stoker and Yang worked on the kitchen together.

"That was some mighty fine extrication work you did tonight, Mike. Did you get a lot of MVAs down at 51s?"

Mike nodded, as he placed a clean dish in the drainer. "Pretty much every shift. Some worse than others, of course."

"Don't think I've ever seen a steadier hand on the Jaws. You got through those posts in no time flat, without shaking the guy around too bad, either. Some guys cut up a car fast, but rough, and some guys do smooth, but slow. You did it fast and smooth. That means a lot, when you've got nasty fractures like he did."

"Thanks," Mike said. "And I think I've only ever seen one other guy who could've squeezed in there like you did to get that guy's IV going. I couldn't even figure out how you got in there, let alone how you managed to start a line in those tight quarters."

Yang laughed. "Yeah, well, every now and then it pays to be the guy who people laugh at for being little. Say, who were your paramedics down at 51s?"

"Roy DeSoto and John Gage. You know 'em?"

"DeSoto? I met him a couple times. He came to the academy to talk about the paramedic program. Not that I needed any convincing. He was in the very first paramedic class out of Rampart, wasn't he?"

Mike nodded.

"And Gage—man, I don't really know him, but I think all us 'medics have heard of him. I saw him in action, just once, when I was a probie and he was pulling an OT shift at my station. I still wasn't even sure I was gonna make it through my probie period—I'll tell ya, it isn't easy being on the low end of the height and weight limits—but man, seeing him in action made me stick with it. Is he as crazy as people say?"

"Uh, how so?" Mike asked. There were so many things Yang could've meant by that.

"They say he'll pretty much try anything, no matter how crazy it is, if it'll help him get his patient out of whatever they're stuck in. Supposed to be kind of an adrenaline junkie, too, I guess. Some guys call him the Timex Man."

"Huh?"

"You know—'takes a licking and keeps on ticking.' That guy's gotten beat up over and over, but keeps coming back."

Mike nodded. "Yeah—well, I guess he's one of us guys where the job is everything to them. Us. Whatever. He sure does it well, too. He's who I was thinking of, incidentally, when you were in the front seat with that guy today."

"Really?" Yang beamed at him. "Wow! Thanks! Geez—I just got compared to the legendary John Gage."

"Yep," Mike said. "He's pretty spectacular, isn't he." With a completely straight face, he placed another dish in the drainer.

"Damned straight he is! Thanks, man—you just made my day."

_Not as damned straight as you might think_,_ lucky for me_, Mike thought, unable to prevent a grin from creeping onto his face. "Any time," he said, passing another dish to Yang.

**TBC**


	9. Hide and Seek

**Chapter 9: Hide and Seek**

_Station 51, six months later, 0745_

"Well, g'mornin', Roy! How are ya?" Johnny grinned broadly at his partner as they entered the locker room.

"Not as good as you, apparently. How was your vacation?" Roy asked, as he started to change into his uniform.

"It was awfully good, Roy. Just—really, really good. You know we went camping, right? But guess where we went? Back to that same place we all went to last year, is where. The swimming hole was pretty cold, in the spring, but everything else was just _perfect_."

"Perfect, huh?" Roy smiled back at him.

"Yep."

"Glad to see the glow hasn't worn off after a couple months."

"Not even _slightly_, pal." Johnny's grin morphed into a scowl. "What, did you think it was a fling or somethin'?"

Roy wasn't really sure _what_ he originally thought was going to happen with Johnny and Mike, when he first found out about them, since it took him a while to get over the shock. But he could answer a slightly different version of Johnny's question with total honesty. "I know it's not a fling. I didn't mean anything other than I'm glad to see you so darned happy all the time."

"Oh. Okay. Sorry—I get kinda touchy about what people think. It ain't easy, ya know."

"What isn't?" Roy asked.

"Not following the unwritten rules of the world. Hiding, hiding, hiding. This is the best thing that ever happened in my whole life, and I can't even tell anyone. _Anyone_, Roy. _Ever_."

"I know," Roy said quietly.

"And I can't do what I wanna do, either. Can't make it legal. Can't tell the world that we're not just havin' some kind of crazy fling. You know how bad that sucks?"

"No," Roy said honestly. "I don't. But I'm sorry it does."

Johnny relaxed his scowl. "Yeah, I know. Sorry I got all grouchy on ya. It's just, you know, we were talkin' this week, about, like, permanent stuff. And how hard it is to do that, if you're not following the rules. If you're not normal."

"Johnny …"

"Yeah, I know, I know. Don't beat myself up. But the fact is, Roy—look at it this way. Look at your hands."

"Huh?"

"Look at 'em. What's different about your hands and mine?"

Roy did as Johnny asked, and immediately got the point.

"There's that one little gold thing there, that when you put that on, and signed a piece of paper, a whole lotta legal stuff happened automatically. But us? We hafta go through it piece by piece, where you and Joanne got a one-stop shop." Johnny shook his head. "Sorry. I'll quit my whining. But here's the thing I wanted to tell you. When we got back, yesterday, we both re-did our medical power of attorney stuff. As, like, the first step. I don't wanna, you know, devalue our friendship, but …"

Roy shook his head. "I understand, Johnny. It's great. It's a _great_ step. And also, just because I'm not signing the papers, doesn't mean I won't be there for you in those situations. For both of you. Okay?"

"Yeah." Johnny blew out a breath. "Thanks, Roy. Thanks for not being upset. And thanks for all those years when you _were_ holding that pen on my behalf. That really means a lot to me."

"You're welcome. And Johnny—I'm really happy for you. Really. And I'm counting on you being a happy, goofy idiot all day, too, so don't disappoint me, all right?"

Johnny's smile finally returned. "You can count on me, Roy. C'mon—coffee oughta be ready."

Roy and John were having their coffee at the day-room table when the rest of the A-shift crew wandered in, minus Hank Stanley, who was debriefing with B-shift's captain in the office.

"Hey Gage! Welcome back," Chet said. "How was your vacation?"

"Super! Couldn't have been better. The weather was perfect, and the trees, and the fishing, and the air, and everything—just perfect."

"You go by yourself?" Chet said, attempting, as he did on a regular basis, to get something—_anything_—out of Johnny that might be a clue about who was making him so happy.

"Nope!" Johnny said, hanging onto the happy feeling, even though he knew Chet was going to be on his case again.

"And that's all I'm getting, right?" Chet said glumly.

"Yep. Just … look, if you'd just stop asking, I'd just stop havin' to not tell you. Can you leave it alone?"

"Geez, Gage," Chet complained, shaking his head. "You're gettin' to be just as bad as Stoker ever was. Worse, maybe. 'Cause at least _he_ hardly ever said anything at all. But you? Half the time, I can't shut you up. And the other half the time, I get nothin'."

"So quit askin'. Ask me about other stuff. Just let the personal stuff stay personal, all right?" Johnny said, quickly starting to lose the glow from his vacation. "Look, let's change the subject. What'd I miss while I was gone?"

"Just two boring shifts, man. Where'd you go, anyhow?" Chet said, clearly not getting the message.

Johnny just looked at him, scowling.

"Might as well just quit trying, Kelly, like the rest of us," Ed Jackson said. "And now I'm gonna _really_ change the subject, because this is pointless."

"Man, I'm with you there," said Marco, shaking his head. "What do you want to change it to?"

"So a guy I used to work with said their station bought some exercise equipment, and that the department kicked in some of the money if they raised the rest amongst themselves. How'd you guys like to start up a collection, or something, to at least get some weights or something?" Jackson said. "As a start."

"Sure," said Chet. "I mean, you're the gym rat of the six of us, Jackson, but I'm for it."

"Well, my rent just went up," Johnny said, "but I oughta be able to come up with something."

Their discussion continued, interrupted briefly by roll call, and then by a dumpster fire, until lunch time, when they had a plan laid out and the beginnings of a fund. Lunch—Chet's infamous chili—was interrupted by a major call. The station was toned out as part of a second-alarm assignment at a house fire that had quickly spread to an adjacent structure.

The engine and the squad arrived at the block, and were assigned tasks by the battalion chief. The chief had already declared the situation to be a defense-only attack—the fire in the original house, and the one next to it, would be contained through a coordinated exterior attack, designed to protect the exposures by keeping the fire contained to those two structures. He had pulled out the interior teams well before Station 51 arrived.

Jackson was assigned to put Engine 51 a few blocks down the road, at a hydrant on a different branch of the water main, to relay water to the aerial ladder truck that arrived shortly after 51's crew arrived. Johnny and Roy were put on a two-and-a-half on one side of the second structure, and Marco and Chet were on another line on a different side. Cap was assigned to coordinate the efforts of the teams assigned to the second structure.

About fifteen minutes into their tasks, there was a crashing sound, and then, the words that nobody ever wanted to hear came over the radio. It was Marco's voice.

"_Mayday, mayday, mayday! Firefighter Kelly is trapped under a brick wall collapse, on the delta side of the second structure._"

Just as they should have, everyone continued with their tasks until directed otherwise—after all, if everyone dropped what they were doing to run to his aid, the fire would quickly get out of control, and the man who needed help would potentially be in even more trouble. But Johnny and Roy knew they'd be called, in seconds, to help their comrade.

Cap's voice came on the HT in Roy's coat pocket. "DeSoto, Gage—shut down your line, and assist in the search and rescue."

"Copy, shutting down," Roy said.

They rushed around the corner of the building, and found Marco scrabbling frantically through the pile of bricks. They could hear Chet's alarm going off—the one that screamed out that its wearer wasn't moving—but they couldn't see him.

"He's right there," Marco shouted after a few seconds. "See his boot?"

"I see it!" Johnny said. "Roy, tell Cap we need manpower over here, and fast. We're gonna have to get these bricks off him right now—he's not so buried that he shouldn't be able to move, and I don't wanna yank him out, since the fire's not headed right for us, and we don't know why he's not moving."

Johnny and Marco started tossing bricks towards the wall that had fallen. Nobody had anticipated the collapse—it was a wall from the adjacent structure, which hadn't been on fire, but must have been damaged by heat at some point. It had hit Chet from behind, giving Marco only a glancing blow.

Within a minute, there were six other firemen at the scene, and the bricks were off in short order. Chet was on his side—better than being on his back, on top of his air pack. He was breathing—they could see his chest moving. But that was all they could tell at that point.

"Marco, hold his head steady." Johnny shut off the alarm, cut through the backpack-like straps of the air pack, and pulled the whole assembly away from Chet's still form. Roy returned with the long spine board and other equipment, and slid the board onto the ground behind Chet.

"Marco, I'm gonna take his head and neck now, while you get his helmet off before we roll him." Marco took the helmet of carefully and set it aside. "All right, now you hold his head steady. We'll roll him onto the board, on your count, nice and easy."

Marco followed Johnny's instructions, and the team log-rolled Chet onto the backboard. Johnny checked Chet's neck over quickly, and then put a cervical collar on him. Roy started to cut Chet's gear off, checking him for obvious trauma that needed immediate attention, skipping his head, since Johnny was dealing with that end.

"Johnny—look at this."

Marco held up Chet's helmet. The right side was crushed, with red brick dust evident in the spiderweb of cracks. Johnny carefully felt Chet's entire skull, and was relieved to find no obvious fractures. He did find a swollen line all along the side of his skull, with a laceration along one edge, where the inside straps of the helmet had done just what they were supposed to, spreading out the force of a major impact. But there were no large swellings, and nothing else terribly alarming. He opened Chet's eyelids and flashed each eye with a pen light. He blew out a sigh of relief. "No crepitus, but there's a laceration and swelling around the straps inside the helmet. No other major swelling. And there was no swelling or deformity in the cervical spine." He gently pried open each of Chet's eyelids, and flashed his pen light into each of them. "Equal and reactive bilaterally. You got anything, Roy?"

"Negative. Let's get him out of here."

They covered Chet with a blanket, leaving the cut-up turnout gear in a heap, and strapped him to the backboard. Johnny, Marco, and two men from 110s carried him swiftly but carefully to a safe zone. The two other firefighters were immediately sent back to take over where Chet and Marco had left off. Johnny and Roy continued their assessment of Chet.

"I'm not seein' anything else obvious, Roy. Good chest rise, equal breath sounds bilaterally, respirations fourteen. Can you get on the horn to Rampart?"

Roy started up the biophone. As he did so, Johnny tried again to get a response from Chet.

"Chet?" he said loudly. "C'mon, pal—gimme something, here." He squeezed a muscle on Chet's shoulder, and was rewarded with arm movement, a grimace, and a moan. "C'mon, Chet—open your eyes!"

Chet's eyes slowly blinked open.

"All right!" Johnny said. "Chet? You with us, buddy?"

"Wha …"

"You got knocked out, pal. You know where you are?"

"Uh … fire?"

"What else, Chet? What kind of fire?"

"Dunno." Chet's eyes drooped shut again.

"Keep those eyes open, pal. Do you know what day is it?"

A long pause. "Dunno." Chet's eyes stayed open, and flicked back and forth nervously.

"All right. It's all right. Can you tell me your whole name?"

"Chester B. Kelly."

"Good!" Johnny said, finally happy with one of the answers. "You know who I am?"

"Gage. Shit—what happened?"

"A wall fell on you, and knocked you out but good. Can you wiggle your fingers?"

Chet complied.

"Okay—what fingers am I squeezing now?"

"Pinkies."

"Good—now move your toes—great—and what toes does Roy have down there?"

"Uh, big ones. Shit, my head hurts."

"I know it, man. Anything else hurting?"

"I guess my neck is kinda sore. What happened, anyhow?"

Johnny patiently repeated his explanation, while listening with half his brain to what Roy was repeating back over the biophone.

"All right, Chet—we're gonna take you in to Rampart, all right? Get some pictures of your head and neck, make sure nothing's broken. Can you see all right?"

"Yeah, yeah—I can see fine. Can you take all this stuff off me?" Chet complained. "It's really uncomfortable."

"Sorry, man—no can do. We gotta keep your head and neck still till the docs say it's safe for you to move, all right?"

"Okay, Gage." Chet frowned. "Man, what a headache! What the hell happened?"

Johnny repeated his explanation, realizing he'd probably be doing so over and over on the way to Rampart.

"Huh. Shit—everyone else okay?"

"Yeah, Chet—everyone's fine. See? Roy's down by your feet. Cap, Marco—stick your heads over here so Chet can see you. See? Everyone's fine."

"Stoker's at the engine?"

Johnny's heart fell to his feet, as the other three men suddenly got quiet. "Mike's fine, too, Chet. He's just busy now, or he'd be here too."

"I feel kinda weird. Woozy. What happened, anyhow? Everything's all blurry."

_Shit_. "Let's go, Roy. Right now."

Chet's eyes drooped shut again as they strapped the backboard to the gurney.

"Chet? Chet!"

Nothing.

Johnny stopped the driver briefly after Chet was loaded into the ambulance.

"Time to burn some serious diesel, Hal. No fooling," he said quietly.

"He doesn't look _that_ bad, does he?"

"He's getting worse. Fast. Step on it—hard."

~!~!~!~

_Rampart, Several hours later_

Five pairs of eyes looked up as Joe Early and the neurosurgeon emerged from the operating room into the waiting area. Johnny and Roy simultaneously sighed in relief as they recognized Early's subtle "good news" look.

"Your speed made all the difference," the neurosurgeon said. "I evacuated an epidural hematoma, right over his temporal lobe, and fixed the bleed. Fifteen more minutes—maybe less—and … well, the outcome wouldn't have been good."

"Is he going to be okay?" Marco asked. "I mean, he didn't hardly remember anything except his own name."

"It's hard to say, at this point, but the odds aren't bad. We'll know more when he wakes up."

"All right. Thanks, Doc," said Captain Stanley. He looked at Johnny, who didn't look much better than he had five minutes ago, and made eye contact with Roy, who nodded at him subtly. Cap slapped his hands on his thighs, and stood up. "Time for the second quarter of the waiting game, boys. Who's with me for coffee?" Marco and Jackson trailed out of the waiting area with their captain, not quite noticing that Roy and John were staying put.

Johnny sat there with his head in his hands.

"Johnny …" Roy said.

"We coulda been faster, Roy. I _know_ we coulda."

"I don't think so. We got him out from under those bricks—we had to be careful, for sure, because we didn't know what we were dealing with. You said it yourself, when we first got to him."

"If—if … if we'd just pulled him out, we woulda got him here five minutes faster."

"Come on, Johnny—you know we couldn't do that."

Johnny didn't say anything.

"We couldn't have done that, Johnny. What if he'd had a broken neck?"

"But he didn't, Roy." He shook his head. "We shoulda been faster."

"Johnny, no. No way. We made the right choice, for what we knew at the time. C'mon. Let's go get some coffee with the guys, while we wait for Chet to wake up."

"I'm just gonna wait here, Roy. You go on."

Roy looked at him, and sat back down.

"What's going on, Johnny? You know we did a fine job. This isn't _like_ you."

Johnny didn't reply at first. He held his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. Roy waited patiently, until Johnny finally spoke.

"The first thing I said to Chet today was a lie. And so was the last thing. Practically all I said to Chet today was lies. And now—there he is, layin' there, with a busted head, and maybe the last thing I ever said to him was a lie. I'm sick of it, Roy."

Roy was momentarily confused. "The last thing?"

"Yeah. That Mike was just busy. I didn't even think about what I said—I just … didn't wanna upset him, was all. So practically everything I said to Chet today was lies. About Mikey."

Roy had no idea what to say to Johnny. None. But somebody else might.

"C'mon, Johnny. We're gonna go to the staff lounge, and clear it out, and you're gonna make a phone call."

~!~!~!~

_L.A. County Fire Station 93_

At Station 93, the A-shift crew members were finally getting a break, after an unusually busy morning and early afternoon. They had just finished restoring the equipment to service, and the men were enjoying a much-needed break. Everyone was in the day room, except Len, who was in the office finishing up run reports from the busy day. The house phone rang, and Washington picked it up.

"L.A. County Fire Department, Station 93, Firefighter Washington speaking."

"_Hi, uh, this is John, uh, Mike Stoker's housemate. Is he around? It's kind of an emergency."_

"Sure—hang on." He put his hand over the receiver. "Stoker? It's your housemate. He says it's an emergency."

Mike froze, in the middle of turning a page. Johnny wouldn't call in the middle of the day, and use the word "emergency," unless something really, really bad had happened.

"Shit. Uh, tell him hold on a second, okay?"

Mike's boots skidded on the shiny floor as he rounded the corner to Len's office. The door was slightly ajar.

"Cap? I have a real emergency phone call, on the house line. Can I take it in here? Please?"

Len instantly set aside his paperwork, and got up from his desk. "Of course—all yours. Everything all right?"

"I doubt it," Mike said.

Len left the office, clicking the door shut on his way out. Mike pushed the "Line 2" button on the phone, and picked up.

"I got it, Washington, thanks," Mike said first. He waited for the click that told him that Washington had put the day-room extension down.

"Johnny? You all right? What happened?" Mike's heart was pounding.

"_It's Chet. Jesus, Mikey. A brick wall fell on him, and the whole side of his helmet got busted in, and he had a bleed in his brain. I … I could see him gettin' worse, right in front of me in the ambulance on the way to Rampart. He, uh, just got out of surgery._"

Mike was disturbed not only by the news, but by the shaky, tentative quality to Johnny's voice. "Shit. I'm sorry, babe. Do they know yet how he's gonna do?"

"_Not really. He's still out from the surgery_."

Mike could tell from the flatness of Johnny's voice that there was more going on.

"I know it's hard treating your friends. Are you okay?"

Mike could hear Johnny breathing on the other end, so he knew he was still there. "_I'm a wreck, actually. It's …_" Johnny sighed heavily. "_It's just that … me and Chet kinda had words this morning, just a little bit. The usual thing. And then, when he was conscious for a minute or so, and was asking if all the other guys were okay, he didn't remember that you transferred out, and asked where you were, I fibbed and told him you were busy, or else you'd be there. 'Cause I didn't want to upset him, you know? So … I keep thinkin', what if he doesn't make it, and the last thing I said to him was a lie, and the thing before that was a fight?_"

Mike chose his next words carefully. "Deep down, or probably actually not all _that_ deep down, you guys both know you're good buddies. He knows you care, Johnny. Everybody does. All right?"

"_Yeah. I know. I just feel … rotten, is all. I'm sick of having to hide._"

"I know." Mike paused. "Listen. If you want to tell him about us, when he wakes up, that's fine. If you think it would help him, or if it would help you. All right?"

"_I … I dunno, Mike. Thanks. But—I just don't know. I'll think about it. And—I'll let you know what happens. Your guys won't think it's weird if I'm callin' about one of our guys, so I'll call you later._"

"Okay. We had such a great week, you and me. A really, really great week. Try to hold on to that. Okay?"

"_Yeah. We did, didn't we. I think that was pretty much the best week of my entire life._" Johnny's voice started to sound a bit more settled and level.

"Me, too. I've been grinning like an idiot all day, babe. Call me later, okay?"

"_Yeah. I will. And tomorrow morning, first thing, will you meet me at Rampart, so we can go visit Chet?_"

"Of course I will. We'll do that. Love you," Mike said.

"_Love you too. A whole lot._"

"Bye."

"_Bye_."

Mike put the phone down, and rubbed his temples to forestall the headache he could feel coming on. He knew how terribly hard it was for Johnny to have to treat his friends, and that despite all their bickering, Johnny and Chet were pretty close. He thought about what he'd say to his shift-mates—he'd never mentioned before that his "housemate" was a firefighter from his old station, which, now that they were about to find that out, might seem like a major omission. But at the moment, Mike didn't particularly care. He pushed Len's chair away from the desk, and went out to face his friends.

Everyone got quiet and looked up when Mike entered the room, but nobody said anything at first.

"Mike?" Len asked quietly. "What's the news?"

Mike cleared his throat. "A guy from my old crew at 51s just got messed up pretty bad. Head injury. Brick wall came down on him. My housemate is one of the paramedics on that shift, and said he was really bad. Everyone's pretty torn up right now."

"Sorry to hear about that, Mike. Do you need to go?" Len asked.

"You probably couldn't get a sub for me on short notice, so … let's say 'no' for now. Johnny's gonna call me back when they know something more. Chet—that's the guy—he's still unconscious."

"Sorry, man," Washington said. The others echoed his sentiment.

Everyone was somber for a while—news of a downed firefighter always did that. The engine had an alarm panel activation that turned out to be what it was 99% of the time: nothing. The squad had a run while Yang was making dinner, so Mike gladly took over for him, just to have something to occupy his mind. He jumped, then froze, when the phone rang.

"I got it," he said, wiping his hands on a towel.

"L.A. County Fire Department, Station 93, Firef—"

"_Hey, it's me_," Johnny said, interrupting Mike. "_Listen—Chet woke up a little while ago. That's good—it's _real_ good. And I'm about to go in to see him—I just wanted to tell you real fast that things are looking better. I'll give you a call when I've seen him, okay?_"

Mike felt some of the tension that had been building up in his neck and shoulders all afternoon leave him.

"Boy, I'm glad to hear that," he replied. "Let me know when you hear more, okay?"

"_For sure. Gotta go—they're letting me in right now, for five minutes. Bye!_" Click.

Mike replaced the phone. "He's awake," he said to the three men who were looking on. "Johnny's going in to see him—but it sounds like maybe things are looking up."

"Great, Mike. That's good news. Who's the guy who got hurt?" Len asked.

"Chet Kelly—we were at 51s together for about six years. Our whole crew was, actually—in six years we just had one change, and that was a new captain after the first year. So we got to be pretty tight," Mike said.

"And this John fellow, your housemate—you worked with him for six years too?" Armstrong asked. "_And_ he's your housemate? Man, that would make me crazy—working with my housemate. Living with my shiftmate. Whatever. A little too much togetherness, if you ask me."

"Oh—um, that wasn't till after I transferred over here," Mike said. "'Cause yeah, that'd be too much, wouldn't it."

"So, Mike, if you guys were such a tight crew, how come you transferred way the hell up here?" Armstrong asked.

Mike sighed. Oddly enough, that question hadn't really come up in the last six months. People just accepted that transferring from station to station was part of life in a big department. Mike decided that he'd stick with his original story—the one that Len knew.

"The commute was getting to be a bit much. And, when you get to be my age, you hafta start thinking about what's next. I didn't think it looked so great that I was at the same place for so long. And I also knew I wanted to see more of the department—get some more perspectives, you know?"

The two younger men looked at him blankly, but Len responded. "I certainly understand that. Even though most of the equipment and all of the SOPs are the same, you still get something new everywhere you go."

"But—" Washington looked at Mike. "Nah, never mind."

"What, Ben?" Mike asked, and then wished he hadn't.

"But if the commute is so bad, why'd that John fellow move up to your place?"

"Uhhh, he … uh … just doesn't mind driving as much, I guess," Mike said, fumbling for words. _Shit, shit, shit. Just keep your mouth shut, Stoker. And change the subject_. "But anyhow—be really patient with Yang and Velasquez, afterwards, if they ever have to treat one of us for something bad. Or _anyone_ they know. Because I think it's one of the hardest things a paramedic has to deal with." Mike's mind flashed to various incidents—Johnny's cop friend who got hit by the car, and what a mess Johnny was after that; Roy, who had to take a couple shifts off after the experience of treating Johnny when he got blown up in a gas explosion; everyone, standing there feeling powerless and helpless after Captain Stanley got zapped by a downed power line at an MVA that nearly turned into a brush fire.

"That hasn't happened, here," Len said, "knock on wood." He tapped the wooden coffee table

Firemen being superstitious by nature, all three other men rapped some wooden object nearby.

"Anyhow—I'm gonna go straight to Rampart in the morning, I think."

Everyone nodded.

"Please send your friend Kelly best wishes from all of Station 93, Mike," said Len.

"Thanks, Cap. I will."

~!~!~!~

Johnny called Station 93 twice more that evening with updates—all good news—before Station 51 had to resume their shift. He and Mike agreed to meet at Rampart in the morning. Mike knew that by the time he got there, visiting hours would have begun. And Johnny said he was going to take a short nap at his apartment between the end of the shift and the start of visiting hours, though Mike privately suspected that the nap might happen on a couch somewhere at Rampart.

In the morning, after the long drive from Station 93 to Rampart, Mike took the elevator up to the fourth floor, where Chet's room was. He saw Johnny waiting outside in the hallway, where there was a row of chairs.

"It's okay," he said. "His mom and sister are there, and I wanted to give them a minute. Though I think Chet's probably trying to get rid of them, from the look on his face."

"All right." Mike looked up and down the hallway, and saw nobody. He sat down on Johnny's right, and quickly squeezed his hand. "You doing okay?"

Johnny nodded. "Yeah. I think so. We were lucky, and got a real light night, which is good, 'cause I was a wreck. If I were Cap, I probably woulda sent me home." He paused, and looked up and down the empty hallway. "And I, uh, thought about what you said last night—about tellin' him, if that would feel better. The thing is, I guess he'd probably be okay with it and all, but it's that whole thing about how people in the department are prob'ly just better off not knowing. Ya know?"

"Yeah," Mike said. "I know. But—I think if he figures it out, like Cap and Roy did, then it's not a big deal."

"I think we've gotten better at being careful, though," Johnny said, watching the still-empty hallway. "I don't see as how there's anything that anyone would notice, unless they're already lookin' for it. Which I don't see why anyone would be."

"No, probably not."

They both looked up as the elevator doors opened. Dixie McCall stepped out.

"Hey, Dix," Johnny said.

"Johnny," she said. "And Mike—good morning. I heard about Chet—thought I'd come up and say hello, if he was up to it, even though he doesn't know me well."

"He'll appreciate it, I'm sure. Have a seat." Johnny patted the chair on his left, and Dixie sat down.

"Oohhh, I'm not so sure I should've sat down—it's going to be pretty hard to get up again," she said.

"Like going back to work after a vacation," Johnny said.

"Oh, that's right! Where'd you go, anyhow?"

"Went camping, to a great spot that I'd had a really good time at once before."

"Oh, was that the place your whole shift went last fall? I remember you seeming really happy when you got back from that trip," Dixie said. She knew she was being wicked, but she really wanted to see what kind of reaction she would get if she tested her theory a little bit.

"Yep, that was the place!" Johnny said, grinning. "Just as good the second time around, too. Maybe better. Yeah, definitely better."

"Did you go with anyone, or just on your own?" Dixie said, wincing inwardly at her boldness.

"Um, I uh …" Johnny started.

Mike twisted and squirmed in his chair, as if it had suddenly sprouted nails from the seat.

"Never mind," Dixie said hastily. "None of my business." Though she was pretty sure she had the answer to the question she wouldn't in a million years actually ask. Mike had turned away, and she could only see one ear, but it was bright red. _With ears that are burning like that, somebody must be talking about you, mister,_ she thought.

The door to Chet's room swung open, and Chet's sister stuck her head out. "Mom says you guys can come in."

"Thanks, Liz," said Johnny.

"You know what, boys?" Dixie said. "I'll come back another time. After all, I'll be here all day. And five visitors at once is an awful lot, especially when one of them is John Gage."

"Oh, ha, ha, Dix," Johnny said. But he was smiling. "We'll tell him you said hi," he said.

"_We,_" thought Dixie. _Yep_.

"Thanks, Johnny. See you later. Nice to see you, Mike—how's the shoulder, anyhow?"

"Good as new, Dixie. Thanks for asking," Mike said.

"Good. See you boys later." She headed back to the elevator, as Johnny and Mike entered Chet's room.

"Ma," Chet was saying. "Look—you were here all night. Go get something to eat, or have some tea, or something. Lizzy, can you _do_ something with her?"

"Hi, Mrs. Kelly—we'll watch him like hawks if you want to go have some breakfast, or whatever you're up for—honest," Johnny said.

"See, Ma? Gage won't let me get away with anything, right, Stoker?"

"Not a thing," Mike said. "And neither will I."

Mrs. Kelly looked at the two of them.

"Ma, you know Johnny got me out of the mess I was in yesterday, right? I mean, I don't remember it, but that's what they said. So please—will ya take a break?"

"All right, Chester. You win. But if I hear from John or Michael that you misbehaved one bit, I _will_ tell them what the 'B' stands for. And that's a promise."

"Okay, okay! I'll be on my very best convalescent behavior."

"_That's_ what you said when you broke your shoulder. And do you remember the paper airplane incident, that I believe was more your doing than Roy DeSoto's?"

"Yeah, Ma. I promise—nothing like that will happen. Right, Gage?"

"Considering your skull is held together by wires right now, nothing like that _better_ happen," Johnny said, and then glanced nervously at Mrs. Kelly.

"Excellent," she said. "Elizabeth, let's go have some breakfast. Thank you, gentlemen. And John—I thank you, especially, for everything you did yesterday."

"You're welcome, ma'am," Johnny said.

Chet held his breath as he watched his mother and sister leave the room. Then he finally let out a huge sigh of relief. "Holy shit, I thought she'd never leave," he said. "I have a headache like you wouldn't believe, and she just won't stop fussing!"

"Well, I can drop a hint to the nurse on our way out that visiting hours should be strictly enforced, if you like," Johnny said.

"Wouldja, Gage? Thanks, what a pal." Chet lay back on his pillows, suddenly looking pale.

Johnny didn't like his sudden pallor. "You all right, there?"

Chet didn't answer for a minute. "All things considered, yeah. I'm pretty good. The, uh …" he cleared his throat. "The doc said this morning that I maybe wouldn't have made it if you and Roy hadn't gotten me right the hell in here."

"You scared the shit out of us, man," Johnny said. "When someone gets knocked out, and then wakes up for a few minutes like you did, then crashes the way you did—that's bad."

"I don't remember a thing," Chet admitted. "I don't remember waking up, but they said I thought it was like a year ago when I first woke up. And I don't remember the accident—they said I probably never will, which is fine with me—but I keep realizing stuff I forgot."

Mike looked at him cautiously, and spoke for the first time since they entered the room. "When was the last time you think you saw me, Chet?"

"Last time I remember was at Cap's birthday party, a couple weeks ago," Chet said, frowning. "Why? Did I miss something?"

Johnny and Mike both sat up a little straighter. "No—that was it," Johnny said. "It's just that … well, when you came to briefly at the scene, you thought Mike was still on our crew—you were asking about all the guys, making sure everyone was safe, and you asked about Mike, and … well, I didn't want to upset you, so I fibbed, and said he was just over at the engine." He looked down at the floor. "I, uh, felt kinda bad about that."

"Well, I don't remember a thing later than about two days ago. So you're off the hook for that one. And for anything else you mighta done earlier that shift," Chet joked.

Johnny squirmed in his chair.

"Oh, great—what'd you do?" Chet said, laughing. "Fess up, Gage."

"Um, we kinda got in an argument that morning," Johnny admitted, but didn't say anything else.

"What about?" Chet asked. "It's weird, ya know, having these days missing from my memory."

Johnny didn't say anything.

"Chet, he felt really bad about it, when you looked so awful yesterday," Mike said, not wanting to put Johnny through the argument again.

"How would you know, Stoker? You weren't even there," Chet said, proving he was as sharp as ever.

"It was the same old thing, Chet," Johnny sighed, neatly sidestepping the issue of why Mike would know how he was feeling yesterday. "I made the mistake of being happy about my vacation, and you made the mistake of bugging me—again—about what I don't want to talk about."

Chet squinted at him. "It really, really bothers you, doesn't it," he said, finally.

"Yeah," Johnny admitted. "It does."

"Okay," Chet said simply. "I'll quit it. I freely admit—I'm completely baffled, why you won't say anything about this girl. And I'm pretty much dying to know who's tamed you. So if you swear on your honor that it's not a married woman, or a Mafia heiress, or a princess from some country where they'd execute you for just lookin' at her, or a teenager, or one of my sisters, or the sister or daughter or mother of anyone we know, then I'll just let it drop."

"Honest, Chet—it's absolutely not any of those things, all right? But you sure have come up with some good ones," Johnny said. _But not even close_.

"Okay—though it pains me nearly as greatly as my current headache does, the case is closed." Chet watched Johnny carefully, and saw that he seemed to grow a few inches taller all of a sudden. Oddly, so did Mike, but Chet was really more interested in Johnny's reaction.

"Thanks, Chet. Maybe someday … circumstances will be different. But for now, they're not. So thanks."

"You're welcome. It's the least I can do. I can't guarantee that I'll remember any of this tomorrow, mind you, but Mike, you're the witness. A truly neutral party."

"I'm definitely the witness," Mike agreed.

"But now I need a new project," Chet complained.

"How about this," Johnny suggested. "You just nearly got killed, and you just had brain surgery, for crying out loud—I mean, your brain is never, ever supposed to see the light of day—and even though you seem pretty damned good right now, you need to rest up and get completely better. That can be your project. And I'll help however I can, okay?"

Chet closed his eyes for a second or two, and Johnny was alarmed to see the pallor return.

"Yeah," he said, finally. "I, uh, know I have some mending to do. Plus—and don't you dare tell my mother this, okay? I made the doc throw her out when he was checking me out this morning, because … well, something's funny with my whole left side. It's just … I don't know. Sluggish, I guess."

Johnny sat there with his mouth open for a second or two, then closed his mouth and looked at the floor.

"What did the doc say about that, Chet?" Mike asked, figuring Johnny wouldn't.

"He said there's no way to tell for sure, but that since it's only been such a short time since the … what did he call it? Oh yeah, since the 'insult' to my brain—can you _believe _the words they use sometimes? But anyhow, he said since I'm so much better already, it'll probably go away on its own. That it's probably from swelling, not from actual permanent brain damage. But only time will tell."

"That sounds reasonable," Mike said. "And it sounds pretty positive, too."

"Yeah. But I can't help thinking about it, ya know. I'm sure you guys've thought about it, right? What you'd do if you couldn't be a fireman any more?"

Johnny nodded. "Not too many people know this, but hey, since you gave up on needling me about the other thing, I'll give you this one. I'd go back to school and get a nursing degree. I talked to Dixie about it a few months ago, and she said it'd be a piece of cake, since I know how to do half the stuff already anyhow. So go ahead and make a joke about the cute white hat. But that's what I'd do."

Chet sat up a little higher, and shook his head. "No jokes. I mean, not about serious shit. Not today. Probably not for a while. And for the record, I think it's a great plan." He looked over at Mike. "How about you?" _And why don't you look surprised as all hell by what Gage just said?_

"Arson," Mike said. "Investigating, not committing."

"Ooooh, they grew you a funny bone over at 93s!" Chet exclaimed delightedly. "Good for them!"

Mike looked back at Chet, seriously. "How about you, Chet?"

Chet shook his head once. "Ow. Shit." He settled himself back into his pile of pillows, and sighed. "That's the problem. I have no fucking clue, Mike. Not a one."

"My money," Johnny said slowly, "is on you not needing one this time around."

"Mine, too," said Mike, "for what it's worth."

"It's worth a lot, guys. Honest."

Chet's eyelids were drooping, and Mike and Johnny looked at each other quickly.

"Chet, you okay?" Johnny asked.

"Yeah. It's Wednesday, about eleven in the morning, I'm at Rampart with a broken head because a brick wall fell on me, and I'm still alive because my good friends John and Roy knew exactly what was going on, and my name is Chester B. Kelly, and no, I won't tell you what the 'B' is for." Chet crossed his arms over his chest. "See?"

Johnny laughed, and his laughter made Mike feel lighter as well. "Okay, okay! I guess you're just tired, is all. You're entitled. So why don't me and Mikey get outta your hair—oh, sorry, I guess they shaved that all off, didn't they?"

"Ha, ha," said Chet. "But yeah, I'm a baldy all right. And I pretty much do need to go to sleep right now," he admitted.

"Get some rest," Johnny said. "I'll tell the nurse you're goin' to sleep an' not to wake you up."

"We'll check in on you later, all right?" Mike added.

"Don't you live like an hour and half from here, Stoker?"

"Oh. Uh, I'm hanging out with Gage today anyhow," Mike said. "So maybe we'll bring you something edible later, or something like that."

"Sounds great. Thanks, guys," Chet said, as he closed his eyes.

Johnny and Mike left the room quietly. Mike turned towards the elevator, but Johnny said, "Hang on—gotta talk to the nurse. It's important, actually—if they don't know he was totally okay before he conked out, they'll just wake him up again right now."

"Oh, right," Mike said.

They stopped at the nurses' station.

"Uh, miss?" Johnny said to the nurse, who was hunched over the desk doing paperwork.

She looked up. "Can I help—oh! Hi, Johnny." She was blushing slightly. "I guess Mr. Kelly in 406 is one of yours, huh?"

"He sure is, Cindy. And this is Mike Stoker—he's mine too." The nurse nodded politely at Mike, who was barely restraining himself from kicking Johnny in the seat of the pants. "Anyhow—just wanted to let you know he just conked out for a nap, but he was A and O times three right before."

"All right, thanks. I can let him sleep for a while, then. You're looking well, by the way."

"Thanks. You look great, as always. Oh—and his mom is driving him crazy. It sounds like this would be a good situation for enforcing visiting hours."

"All right," said Cindy. "She won't like it, though."

"Ah, just tell her it's the doctor's orders. Which it is, really, since the length of visiting hours is a standing order, right?"

"Good point," Cindy said. "I always forget that."

"Yeah, well, I like to know the rules, so I know how to get around 'em when I have to," Johnny said. "Anyhow—catch you later. And take good care of him, huh?"

"Of course I will. Nice to see you."

"You too. Bye."

Mike and Johnny waited silently for the elevator, and let two people out before getting in.

"I'm yours, huh?" Mike said with a grin, after the elevator doors closed.

"Couldn't resist. I'm kinda feelin' like I wanna prove it when we get home, too."

"Well, I'm not gonna stop you," Mike said. "And lemme guess—you went out with her, right?"

"Uh, yeah," Johnny said sheepishly. "About eight or nine months ago. She dumped me after our third date."

"What was she thinking?" Mike said, shaking his head.

"She gets a prize, though—Last Woman to Dump Gage."

They exited the elevator on the first floor, and headed for the parking lot.

"Man, that was really a relief, seein' Chet looking so good." Johnny said, as they headed to the visitors' lot. "I really had no idea how he was gonna be this mornin'. But he was pretty much himself, right?"

"Yeah, he was," Mike said. "What do you think about the thing with his left side?"

"I think I really hope it gets better on its own," Johnny said. "And I think it's gonna kill him, waiting to see if it does. And I think he's gonna second guess himself all the time for the next year, at least, even if he tests out perfectly fine. That's what I think."

They stopped by Johnny's Rover.

"And what I think, Johnny, is that you're about the most honest person I know, and I'm still amazed that I'm yours and you're mine, and I'll meet you at your place in about ten minutes."

**TBC**


	10. Life Up North

A/N: (1) I don't know this geographical area, so everything is made up. A reference to a tabloid publication's ad campaign may be an anachronism, but oh well. I also have no idea if they had 2000 GPM fire pumps back in that time period, but Engine 93 needed to be pretty impressive in that respect for one scene, so I made her a big, strong girl.

(2) "Drafting" is the operation of using the fire pump to draw water from a natural source, rather than a municipal hydrant. It often goes along with the use of tanker trucks to deliver the water to where the fire actually is, since the water source and the fire may be miles from each other. The tadpole story is based loosely on a real-life incident that someone told me about, where the operator forgot the barrel strainer on their hard suction hose, and ended up with the filter between the suction hose and the pump clogged solid with frogs. I didn't think Mike would make that mistake, so I gave him some surprise tadpoles instead.

**Chapter 10: Life Up North**

_A few months later_

Washington dribbled the ball, and headed down the half-court towards the hoop. He feinted a shot at the basket, with Stoker blocking him, but then whipped around and tried a shot for real. He missed, and Yang picked up the ball and dribbled it down to the end of the court, passing it to Mike on his way back. Armstrong tried to block Mike, but Mike spun and ducked around him, taking a clear shot at the basket.

Swoosh. Yang and Stoker exchanged a high-five, which was really a mid-five for Mike and a high-five for Yang. At 5 feet 4 inches tall, he barely squeaked into the fire department. He passed the physical tests just fine, because he lifted weights to keep his strength up, but wasn't bulky either. In basketball, his forte was sneaking past blockades, and turning and moving faster than the men who were much taller and bulkier than he was. He and Stoker made a surprisingly unstoppable team, and Armstrong and Washington were feeling the heat.

"Oooh, Wrong-way's got the moves! Where'd you get them moves, Mike?" Washington panted, as he tried to block Mike from taking another shot.

The ball swooshed through the net.

"Doesn't take too many one-on-one games with my housemate to either give up completely, or get some moves."

"Ah ha, basketball with the famous Gage might indeed teach you some moves," Armstrong said. "He subbed at my brother's station for a while, like two years ago, and Billy said that Gage could duck and dive like he was five feet tall, but still had those six feet to hit the baskets with. So I see how you'd have to have some fine moves to keep up in that game."

He put the ball down, to take a drink from his glass of water. "And that ain't all I heard, either. Billy said Gage was a total skirt-hound. That must get pretty old, living with a guy like that."

Mike took a longer drink from his water glass than he really needed to, and shrugged.

"Actually," Yang said, "My wife's best friend is a nurse at Rampart, where Gage's squad runs to, and said he's totally quit that stuff. Like, cold turkey. Some of the nurses had a betting pool going about when he'd get going with it again, but they gave it up after a couple months when some head honcho told them to lay the hell off."

The three men looked at Mike.

Mike didn't say a thing.

"Well?" Washington said.

"Well, what?" Mike asked, knowing exactly what Washington wanted but choosing not to play the game.

"You'd probably notice if he was bringing chicks home all the time, or if he had a steady girl he's not telling the world about—which is the running theory, by the way."

Mike sighed. "It's not my business to talk about his personal life, okay? Besides, why do you care? You don't even _know_ the guy. Why would it even _interest_ you?"

"But what about you, Stoker? Doesn't it interest _you_?" Armstrong pressed.

"C'mon, guys. I live with him. So I know _exactly_ what he gets up to, and you wouldn't even believe me if I told you. But I'm not spreading it around because it's not my business to do so. He doesn't spread _my_ personal business around, so I don't spread _his_ around. And that's _it_, guys. Remember Len's house rule? No prying. And I don't think it matters that you're prying about someone who's not in the house."

"Yeah, all right," grumbled Washington. "But inquiring minds want to know, ya know?"

"So buy the tabloid," suggested Mike. "Maybe there'll be something in there for you."

"Ha, ha," replied Washington. "Plus, I _think_ I just heard you admit that you _do_ have personal business after all. We'll get it out of you eventually, like I've said before, and I'll say again. House rules or no house rules."

"Why don't we just get on with our game," Mike suggested, snatching the ball from Armstrong. "Or are you two tough guys afraid that the old guy who just stands around by the engine all the time and the short guy are gonna beat you?"

"Oooh, you're on, Stoker," said Armstrong. "'Let's get on with this ga—"

BWAM BEEEP, DOOOT DWEEET BAAHHHMP! "_Engine 93, mutual aid to Kern County, stage for supply to tanker relay at Foster Pond, Lake Drive at Pine Road in Lebec, Lake Drive at Pine Road in Lebec. Further instructions to follow from Kern County on channel 8. Time out: 1142_."

"All right! That'll be cool," Armstrong said as they rushed to the engine. "We'll probably get to do a drafting operation up there."

"Excellent," Mike said, as he started up the engine and pulled out of the station. "But we're gonna miss Francisco's grilled cheese for sure."

A few minutes later, a radio transmission came in. "_L.A. County Engine 93 from Kern County Station 56. We've got a multi-structure agricultural fire. You'll be supplying water to a tanker relay. Use the access road on the north side of Foster Pond. Can you give us an ETA_?"

"Copy—access road on the north side of the pond. ETA approximately eight minutes," Len replied.

A few minutes later, the engine approached the intersection that dispatch had given them.

"There it is," said Len, pointing at a small unmarked road. They pulled down the road, and knew immediately that they were in the right place when they saw a line of empty tankers waiting to be filled. Mike put the engine as close to the pond as he could without risking getting bogged in the mud.

"All right, let's get this show on the road. Armstrong, Washington, get the hard suction and hook it up. Mike, you get set up to fill these tankers. I'm gonna have a word with these tanker fellows," Len announced.

Len approached the first Kern County tanker. "What's the word on this drafting site—any trouble we should expect?"

The driver shook his head. "Nah, it's pretty full right now. Should be plenty of good water."

"Great," said Len. "That's what we like to hear."

He trotted back to the engine, where the hard suction was connected to the intake on one end, and the end with the barrel-shaped strainer was sticking out into the pond.

The fire engine started making a sharp whining noise as Mike pulled the control to prime the pump, using the starter motor of the truck to run the special pump that sucked the air out of the main pump so it could operate to draw water out of the pond. Mike waved the first tanker over, and its driver hooked up to the discharge on the side panel. The screeching sound of the primer pump stopped as Mike noted that the hard suction tubing was filled with water, and he switched the controls over to send the water to the tanker.

"We don't see too many 2000 GPM pumps in Kern County," the driver said to Mike. "You're gonna fill us all up in no time."

"I guess that's the idea," Mike said.

He filled the large tanker in a couple minutes. It drove off, around the access road around the lake, and the next tanker pulled up. Mike repeated the process, though it seemed to take longer the second time, for some reason.

As the third tanker pulled up and hooked up to Engine 93's side discharge, and Mike began pumping water into its large tank, Mike frowned as the pump started making a noise that suggested that it was having trouble sucking the water from the pond. He throttled the engine down, and put the tanker on hold.

"Washington, Armstrong—check the end of the hard suction—something's clogged somewhere. I'm not getting water."

Washington and Armstrong pulled the end of the hard suction tubing out from the pond, where it had been resting near the bottom.

"Oh, man! Check this out!" Armstrong exclaimed. "You gotta see this, Stoker!"

Mike went to see. The barrel-shaped filter at the end of the hard suction had hundreds of holes in it, each about a third of an inch in diameter, to keep largish objects from getting into the fire pump, being pulped inside it, and then clogging the nozzles on attack lines. On this particular filter, every single hole was covered, with something black, shiny, and oval-shaped. And wiggly.

"What the hell is that stuff?" Mike asked. "It looks … biological."

Len gingerly stuck a finger towards one of the blobs, and it fell off into his hand, flopping frantically. The three other men took a step backwards.

Len laughed at their reactions. "You city boys—it's just polliwogs! Or, I suppose, around here, you'd call 'em tadpoles. Big ones. One per filter hole. I guess they're bottom feeders, and we're sucking them right up."

"Gross," Mike said. "And not helpful. I guess if we can figure out a way to keep the end of the suction hose at the top of the pond, we'll be all right."

"Here's what I've seen done, Mike," Len suggested. "Lay a roof ladder on the ground, so about three feet goes into the pond. Put something heavy on the shore end, and then dangle the end of the suction off the end of the roof ladder. That should keep the filter end off the bottom."

"Okay," said Mike. "That should work." Armstrong and Washington were already putting the roof ladder in place. Armstrong threaded the barrel strainer of the hard suction between the last two rungs of the ladder, and tied the suction hose in place.

"Uh, Cap?" Washington asked. "What should we put on the end here, to weigh it down? It's gonna have to be pretty heavy, since that suction hose is real heavy when it's full of water."

Len surveyed the engine. "I only really see two things that'll add up to enough weight," he said, grinning.

Mike could see where he was going with this, and grinned. "Yeah, Cap—we wouldn't want to use anything we might need for this operation, so I think you're right."

"What?" said Armstrong, looking around at the truck to see what Mike and Len meant.

"Sit on it, boys," Len said.

The boys in question looked at him.

"Seriously?" Washington asked.

"Yup," said Len.

Armstrong and Washington looked at each other and sighed. They draped the suction tubing over the ladder, and sat down at the end.

"All right—I'm gonna discharge some water through the suction tubing—and any of those tadpoles that are still alive should swim right down to the bottom. And the dead ones—well, hopefully they'll … go someplace else," Mike said.

He set the controls to backflow some water from the engine's booster tank through the suction hose.

"Okay—one of you guys give the barrel a poke—move it a foot or so, just to get it away from what's left of the tadpoles."

Len handed a pike pole to Washington, who obliged.

"Eew, I can see the dead ones floating away," complained Armstrong. "Gross!"

"Okay, I'm gonna fire up the pump again," Mike said to the tanker driver. He throttled up the engine, and the pump sounded completely normal. The third tanker was filled in short order.

"Damnedest thing I ever saw," Len commented, shouting to be heard over the racket of the fire pump.

"Yeah, I can't wait to tell Johnny. 51's district is so urban that we almost never drafted, and certainly never did many tanker operations, and _absolutely_ never got shut down by tadpoles."

"Say," Len said, reminded of Station 51. "How's your friend who had that head injury a couple months ago—Kelly, right?"

"He's great," Mike said. "He was home in a week, and got the go-ahead from the docs to re-certify seven weeks after that. He didn't pass the first time, but he busted his ass practicing, and two weeks later, he made it. So he's back at work, finding new and frustrating ways to drive everyone crazy." Mike didn't mention that Chet had kept his deal with Johnny, not to pester him about who he was spending all his time with. Johnny had been amazed. Chet simply and completely stopped asking, hinting, implying or speculating, and Johnny's moods after his shifts had improved quite a bit.

The tanker relay lasted for two more hours, until finally incident command thanked and dismissed Engine 93. As they packed up their equipment, Mike went over to the edge of the pond and looked in. Once he moved a few yards away from where their suction had disturbed the water, he could see hundreds of huge tadpoles on the bottom of the pond, some quite near the shore.

Mike remembered a story Johnny had told him about catching tadpoles when he was a child, and watching them turn into frogs.

"Hey, Len, you got any kind of container on you?" Mike asked.

"Uh, what for?" Sterling asked.

"Oh, I just want to catch a couple of those tadpoles and take 'em home. Johnny's all in to that nature stuff—he said he used to catch 'em when he was a kid, and watch them turn into frogs," Mike said, as he rummaged through the cab, looking for some kind of container. "Then a couple months ago when we went camping, he wanted to bring some home, and I said they'd be too gross to have in the house, and then I felt bad about that, so I want to kind of make it up to him," he continued absently, as he continued his quest, looking in one of the exterior compartments. "I suppose I could use the ash bucket, but it'd probably slosh all over the place on the way back. What do you think?" Mike looked up at Len, who was staring at him pensively.

Len didn't say anything for a good few seconds. He just stood there, looking at Mike.

"I think," Len said, slowly, "that maybe the kids next door to you would like to see some polliwogs."

"Huh?" Mike said. "There _aren't_ any kids next door. Down the street, sure, but—"

"Mike," Len interrupted, very quietly, "I think what you should _say_ to the other guys, is that you're taking some home _for the kids next door_. All right?"

Mike turned a shade of pale that Len hadn't seen on him before, and stood there silently.

"It's all right, Mike. It's fine. But I think you ought not to say to the other guys what you just said to me," Len said quietly.

Mike sat down on the running board so hard that Len winced.

"I … I, uh …" Mike couldn't get any real words out. He just stared at the ground.

Len sat next to him.

"I said, it's all right. I was startin' to get that picture anyhow. It doesn't make a difference to me at all, okay?"

Mike nodded, mutely.

"If you want to talk later, that's fine. If not, that's fine, too. But for now, I just heard the last piece of hard suction go up on the truck, so we need to get moving here. You gonna be all right?"

Mike nodded again.

"All right," Len said, clapping Mike on the shoulder. "Up 'n' at 'em, then. I'm sure there's somethin' lyin' around in the bushes that could hold some polliwogs."

Len stood up, and extended a hand to Mike, who took it, and allowed Len to help him up.

"Thanks," Mike whispered. "And sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry for, Mike. C'mon. Let's go get some polliwogs."

Mike headed for the row of bushes around the pond, partly to get away, and partly to scavenge some litter that might hold some water.

"Hey, Stoker! Whatcha doin'?" Washington asked.

"Just looking for some kind of container to take some tadpoles home in, for the kids down the street. Say, your kids would probably like them, too, don't you think? Then we could let the frogs go in the marsh behind the station," Mike said.

"How about this?" Armstrong suggested. He held up a gallon milk jug that someone had left at the side of the access road. "Just cut the top off, and scoop 'em up."

Everyone looked at Len.

"All right, boys; just make it snappy. And be sure to get some of the plants from the pond—that's probably what they eat."

In short order, Mike and Ben had scooped up six huge tadpoles, and gathered some of the weeds growing in the water in a separate bag. Mike drove back to Station 93 with extra care, so as not to slosh the tadpoles excessively.

Back at the station, they found two good-sized jars with lids, and divided the tadpoles up evenly. All six men sat around the table, watching the odd-looking creatures bump repeatedly into the walls of the jars.

"The kids are gonna love this," Washington said.

"Yeah," Mike said. "They sure are."

~!~!~!~

Mike kicked himself for the rest of the shift. He reverted to his pattern of hardly saying a word to anyone, about anything, unless he was directly addressed.

"What's eatin' you, Stoker?" Velasquez said, while the men—minus Mike, who chose to read a magazine instead—decided to play a card game.

"Nothing," Mike said. "I'm just tired."

Fifteen minutes before lights out, Len called Mike into his office. Mike followed him, reluctantly, and took a seat.

"Mike," Len said, after a few seconds of silence. "You should know me well enough by now to believe that I don't judge people based on anything other than how they act towards other people, and the good they do in the world. And in my book, you're at the top of the heap in both respects. And you should also know me well enough to know that I believe that love is love, no matter who it's between. And it goes without saying that I'm not gonna say a thing to anyone about this. All right?"

Mike nodded.

"You've been mighty quiet all afternoon and evening. Were you worried about me knowing about this, or is it something else?"

Mike looked at the floor for a little while, and Len waited patiently.

"I've really been feeling at home, here," Mike said, finally, barely louder than a whisper. "But the way I was this afternoon—that's how I was all the time at 51s. Every hour of every shift. I didn't say anything, just so I could avoid something exactly like what happened with you at the pond."

"Hank did say you were mighty quiet," Len said.

Mike looked up slightly. "I don't like being that way," he said. "I don't want to be Silent Stoker—that was my nickname at my first station, you know. I went straight from 'Hey Probie!' to 'Silent Stoker.' But here—I dunno. I guess it's partly that I'm so happy at home, which I never really was before, and partly that … I guess I just didn't want to be that guy any more, that guy who nobody knew, who never said anything. But now, I guess I ought to go back to that game. Or pretty soon the whole department will know, and that'll be it for me, career wise. And him, too." He put his elbows on his knees, and rested his forehead on his palms.

Len sighed. "Mike, I wish I could tell you the department wouldn't give you a hard time. As far as I know, nobody's ever tested those waters. But I also haven't ever heard of anyone being canned for being gay."

Mike looked up sharply. "That's not how it'd _happen_, Len. _Here's_ how it would go. Somebody would find out—someone who really, really didn't like it. Then, there would be a rumor that would go through the department like wildfire. Then, even if all the guys here at 93s could let it go, which maybe they could and maybe they couldn't, guess what? Someday there'd be a sub. Someone who'd already heard the rumor, and wanted to help me out the door. They'd say I made a pass at them, or some such bullshit. Their word against mine—me, the guy who everyone in the department already 'knows' is a fag.

"Or, maybe it would be even more subtle than that," Mike continued. "A little sabotage here and there, to make it look like I'm making mistakes. It wouldn't even have to be anything having to do with 'my type' at all. I'd end up fired for a string of screw-ups that someone else made happen. Do you _see_, Len? Of _course_ you haven't heard of anyone getting fired for being gay. They'd find some _other_ way. Some way that wouldn't embarrass the department."

Len drummed his fingers on the desk. "I guess I hadn't thought of it that way," he said, finally. "But you're probably right. Let me tell you this, though. Nobody's hearing anything from me. And I have every confidence that you can find a middle ground between 'Silent Stoker' and … what happened today."

Mike looked carefully at Len. "What _did_ happen today, Len? I mean, had I already pretty much blown it, and I just sealed it for you by blabbing about taking some fucking tadpoles home to make my boyfriend happy? Or did that pretty much do it all on its own?"

Len considered the question. "Like I said in the cab, earlier, I was already working on that picture. Today just put the last coat of paint on it."

Mike sighed again. "What'd I _do_, Len? This is the second time this has happened. First Captain Stanley, and now you. I mean, I _get_ the thing I did today. That was just stupid—I was blabbing, and I know better than that. But what else?"

"Let me tell you something about captains, Mike. Do you know what the number one, most important characteristic is that a good fire department captain needs?"

Mike frowned, and his eyes searched the corner of the room. "Um, leadership? Respectability? Something like that?"

Len shook his head. "Nope. Situational awareness, Mike. All firemen have to have it to survive in this job. But the fellows who get tunnel vision won't get any farther than senior firefighter, or possibly engineer, if they even make it through their probie period. You may not have noticed, but there were a fair number of situational awareness questions on the engineer's exam. But when you're the captain, you have to take that awareness and make it your life's work. Hank Stanley's got it in spades—I don't think I know anyone else who can top him in that department. Except for maybe the fellow sitting across from me right now. You're probably the most observant person I ever met. But I don't do too badly myself. So let's put it this way: you've spent one third of your days, twenty four hours per day, with someone whose job it is to be aware of details, things that don't fit, things that other people might overlook. And all I knew was, there was something about you, something important, that you weren't saying. And slowly, over the ten or so months that you've been here, I put together what it was. Does that answer your question?"

Mike nodded.

"But what do I _do_, Len? I don't want to be Silent Stoker any more. I really don't. But I can't screw up again like I did today."

"I'll keep my eyes open, if you like, to make sure you're not saying anything odd. But honestly, I think if you're cautious about what you say about home, you'll be fine. A couple months ago, when your friend Kelly got hurt and you first mentioned that your housemate was one of the crew from 51s, I think that could've gone wrong if the situation had been different. But a downed fireman is such a charged situation that I don't think anyone really had time to think about what you'd said. And any other topic of conversation, of course, is completely fine. And we talk about plenty around here, unlike some of the stations, where all they seem to talk about is either sports or the nightlife."

"I can do sports," Mike said. "And, uh, I guess Johnny and I are gonna have to give up our 1900 phone calls."

"That's probably wise," Len said. "I did notice that you tend to hover at the dorm phone around then. I don't think anyone else thought anything of it, though. But here's an idea: what if he called you on my line? Nobody would answer that without my permission. Have him do that. I'll just answer it, and if it's 1900 or so, you look for my nod, and then go take it in the office. How's that?"

Mike nodded. "That'd be great, Len. He calls from Hank's office anyhow. Maybe he could work the same thing out over there, so it's not always him calling me. Cause I sure as hell can't call 51s and ask for him on the house phone all the time. Well, ever, actually."

"Well, you tell John to call my line from now on, all right?"

"Thanks, Len. I'll do that. And—well, I really appreciate how you're handling this whole mess."

Len shook his head. "It's not a mess, Mike. It doesn't need to be. It's just between you and me, all right? And that's not a mess."

"No. I guess not." Mike shook his head. "Holy shit. Outed by tadpoles. That's gotta be a first."

Len laughed. "See? I think everything's gonna be fine."

"Thanks, Len. Really. Thanks."

"Entirely my pleasure, Mike. Now let's get out of here."

~!~!~!~

Mike took the tadpoles home, and had them set up in a corner of the living room, in an old fishbowl he had in the garage. He had everything ready before Johnny made it home after taking his usual post-shift nap at his apartment. While he waited for Johnny to come home, he thought about how he'd explain what happened with Len. While Mike knew and trusted Len, Johnny would likely be upset about the fact that yet another person in the department had figured them out.

Mike heard the distinctive sound of the Land Rover pulling into the driveway just before noon, and went to the foyer to greet Johnny.

"Hey, babe," Mike said.

"Hiya! How was life up north?"

"Uh, ups and downs. Hey, I brought you something home. Wanna come see?"

"Oooh, is it fireman stuff? 'Cause you know I love that," Johnny joked, as he took off his shoes and put them on the shoe rack.

"No, you ass. C'mere." Mike pulled Johnny into the living room, and over to the corner where the fishbowl sat on a small table Mike had also brought in from the garage.

"Aw, cool! Bullfrog tadpoles! Hey," he said, frowning at Mike, "I thought you said they were too gross to have in the house."

"Changed my mind. I felt kind of bad about it, last time. I mean, it's not like they're gonna get out, or anything like that."

"Nope—not till they're frogs. And we oughta let 'em go before they start hoppin' around, or they won't be happy. So nope, they definitely won't get out. Wow, thanks, Mikey."

"You're welcome. And, uh, speaking of getting out … well, let's sit down for a minute."

"Okay …"

"Len kind of figured things out today," Mike admitted. "But he's cool. He's got a thing about personal privacy, kind of like you."

"I figured he might, what with the no prying rule at your station," Johnny said. He scratched his head. "Those captains—eyes like hawks, every one of 'em."

Mike nodded. "He said the same thing. And, he said you should call on his line from now on. It's the same as the house phone, but ends in a one instead of a two. Nobody answers that but him, and he'll just give me a nod and I'll go get it, all subtle and everything."

"That's nice of him," Johnny said. "Well, I'd rather that nobody knew anything, but I s'pose it was really only a matter of time before he figured it out."

"I guess so." Mike cleared his throat. "So, uh, you're not mad?"

"No, I'm not mad, you idiot." Johnny kissed Mike lightly to emphasize his pronouncement. "I am curious, though."

"Curious?"

"About the tadpoles? How'd you come up with those?"

Mike told the story of the barrel strainer being clogged with tadpoles, and making Armstrong and Washington sit on the land-end of the ladder, and soon Johnny and Mike were both howling with laughter.

"Damn, Mikey," Johnny said, wiping tears from his eyes, "that's the funniest thing I've heard all week. I think maybe we're going out for a beer tonight."

Mike blinked. "Uh, because the story was funny? I don't get it."

"You see, if you and I go out for a beer tonight, you can tell me the story then, and then I can tell the guys at 51s how we met up for a beer and you told me this hilarious story about tadpoles clogging up the hard suction."

Mike laughed. "All right. You're on."

"Oooh, excellent. I've got a date with a fireman. Sexy."

"Not just _any_ fireman, babe. I get to drive the big red trucks, you know."

"Even sexier. Well, at least when _you_ do it. Ed Jackson? Nah. And once," Johnny shuddered, "Cap drove back, that time when Jackson sprained his wrist."

"Uh, okay—you know what? Let's change the subject. Lunch?"

"Yeah. And then I need another nap. 'Cause my shift totally sucked."

~!~!~!~

About six weeks later, the tadpoles had stubby tails, and four fully functional legs. He and Johnny invited the neighbor's kids over one last time to see the frogs before they had to be released. Since Mike's house was in a very dry part of L.A., he went back to the original plan to let them go in the marsh behind Station 93. He and Johnny put the frogs into a box filled with grass, and Mike took them to the station. Right after chores, the whole crew went out to the marsh just behind the parking lot of the station to let the three nearly-grown frogs go.

Mike took the lid off the box, and shook it gently.

"C'mon, girls," he said. "Or guys. Or whatever you are. I don't even know how you tell, with frogs."

"I don't even _want_ to know," Armstrong said.

"J— uh , the kids down the street gave them all girls' names," Mike said. "Ginger, Mary Ann, and Mrs. Thurston Howell."

"Good grief," muttered Len.

Mike leaned farther into the marshy area, and shook the box again, gently. "Out you go, Ginger. C'mon, Mary Ann—attagirl. Mrs. Howell, no dawdling."

Mrs. Howell took it upon herself to hop directly onto Mike's boot.

"Aaugh! Get off! Get off!" he said, flailing his foot. The empty box went flying, Mrs. Howell hopped away, and Mike slipped into the marsh, catching himself on an outstretched left hand.

"Shit! Ow," he complained, rubbing his wrist as he stood up.

"You okay, Mike?" Yang asked.

"Yeah," Mike said, shaking his wrist out. "I guess. At least it's my wrist, and not my shoulder. That's the same one I popped out last year, right before I transferred up here."

"Let's go in, and I'll take a look," said Henry.

"We oughta get back inside anyhow, boys. We can hear the tones from here, but maybe not the phone," Len realized.

Mike shook his wrist out again as they entered the station, and it made a cracking sound. Yang inspected it, and had him move it various ways.

"Might be a minor sprain, but if you can move it like that without too much discomfort it's probably just a strain," Henry said.

"You good for the shift, Mike? If not, tell me now, and I'll call for a sub," Len said.

"Nah. I'm fine. It's sore, but there's nothing I can't do with it."

Velasquez handed him a heavy cast-iron skillet from a kitchen cabinet. "Try this out for size."

Mike hefted it with his left hand. "It's fine. Just sore. No big deal."

"All right, if you say so, Mike," Len said. "Be sure to let me know if it gets any worse, all right?"

"Sure thing, Cap."

The shift was a killer—non-stop action that was unusual for their rural station. By lights out, the men were exhausted, and each in their own way prayed to the fire gods to give them an easy night.

They had it—until 0220, when they were toned out to an MVA.

"Doesn't look too bad," Len said, as they pulled up. "One car, versus a tree. Doesn't even look like we'll have to cut that vehicle up, either. I bet we can probably pop the door with a Halligan." He looked over at Mike, who was flexing his left wrist.

"Huh—no law enforcement's here yet. Mike, let's have you on traffic control, what with that wrist. No arguing. Armstrong, Washington, let's get that vehicle stable so Henry and Francisco can do their thing," Len said, as the squad rolled up closer to the vehicle.

Mike got the traffic control equipment out, and threw a reflective vest on over his turnout gear. He was secretly glad of the break, since his wrist was quite sore, even though it was functional. He knew he had the steadiest hand with the extrication equipment, and that Len would swap him in if necessary, but Len was right—it didn't look like the car would need to be cut up to get the one occupant out.

Mike moved the engine to block the road right before a cross street, and headed past the accident scene to control traffic on the other end, where the ambulance would be coming from. He was surprised that their station had beaten the sheriffs; it was usually the other way around. He set up a line of flares, and with a flag and a flashlight, diverted the oncoming traffic down a cross street. The main road, where the accident had occurred, was flat and straight, but the cross road came down a hill before it crossed the main road.

Most people were civil about having to take a detour, but there were always one or two people who complained. The first was a fiftyish woman in a stylish outfit.

"Can't you just let me sneak through? I'm really in a hurry," she said.

"No," Mike said. _In a hurry, at two thirty a.m.? Sheesh._ "You'll have to take the detour, just like everyone else. Take a right here, then the next left, and the next left, and you'll be right back on this road in no time."

She huffed at him, but turned down the cross street.

The sheriff's deputy pulled in shortly afterwards.

"Howdy," said the officer. "What's the story?"

"Car versus tree. Just the one guy in the car. They got him out a minute or so ago. Ambulance should be here any second. He doesn't seem too bad, from how the paramedics are moving. No witnesses—or at least, none that stuck around," Mike said.

"And ain't that just the way it goes," the deputy said. "You good with the traffic, here, such as it is? I'm gonna see if I can't get a statement from this guy before the meat wagon scoops him up."

"Sure. Looks like we're pretty much wrapped up, once he's transported."

Mike watched as the deputy sauntered down the bank to where the victim lay strapped to the backboard.

He didn't see the Buick Electra, headlights dark, careening down the hill of the cross street. Despite the toll that years of standing next to a thrumming fire pump had taken on his hearing, he did hear it, though. He whipped around to see where the engine sound was coming from. By the time he heard the screeching of the brakes, it was too late.

All the rest of 93's A-shift watched in horror as the Buick's front bumper seemed to grab Mike and lift him into the air, sending him flying up and then crashing down onto the roof of the car. Everyone was still frozen in place as he bounced onto the ground, in slow motion, like it was a scene from a movie, instead of real, horrible life.

The Buick nosedived into the ditch on the side of the main road, engine revving as the back tires spun uselessly in mid-air.

Mike lay on the pavement, face down. He'd heard, over the screeching of the brakes and the roar of the engine, a tremendous snapping sound, like someone had broken an entire tree in half, and then, right afterwards, a crunching sound, which didn't make sense to him, since he'd felt like he was flying. _How __could flying make a crunching sound?_ he thought, as he lay on the pavement and tried to catch his breath.

He tried to breathe—he really did. He could hear people shouting his name, and was beginning to think maybe the snapping sound had something to do with his right leg, which was beginning to feel hot, and then oh god, it hurt, it hurt like a cannonball had lodged itself in his upper leg, and was trying to rip and burn its way through.

He tried to scream, the pain was so bad, but no sound would come out. He didn't think he had any air in his lungs. He tried to breathe again, but nothing happened, for some reason. He thought he could hear Yang's voice, from far, far away. He must be taking care of the patient on the backboard, down by the tree.

"He's not breathing!" Yang shouted. "Cap, hold his head, Ben, steady the right leg. Cap, we roll towards me on your count."

Mike heard someone counting, and then he was suddenly flying again—or so it felt. The pain in his leg, which was already as bad as he could imagine, multiplied ten times as he was rolled onto his back. He finally sucked in a mighty breath, feeling as though his chest split open as he did so, and screamed like he'd never done in his life. And he did it again, and again, and again, and each time, the screams ripped his throat, and tore through his chest, but that was nothing, nothing, compared to the fire in his leg.

People were talking to him, shouting at him, but there was nothing he could do to help them. His world was reduced to the white-hot cannonball lodged in his right thigh, and the screaming—he couldn't help it—and the pain that slashed through his chest every time he took a breath, and every time he let it out in increasingly feeble screams. He felt hands holding his head, and hands feeling every part of his body, and hands pulling warm things away from him, and then he started to feel cold—how can you feel cold in turnout gear, in L.A. County?

He sucked in another breath, and it was somehow oddly unsatisfying—like he was putting in the same effort for half the result. He screamed again anyhow, and didn't notice that it sounded more like a whimper. Something wrapped itself around his neck, and the hands on his head disappeared. The thing holding his neck—was _it_ sucking the air out of his lungs? Something else wrapped itself around his face, covering his mouth and nose. It had cold, funny-tasting air in it, but for some reason, that air seemed to _work_ better than the real air, so he didn't try to rip it away. It wasn't as loud as an SCBA, but it had better air, so he let it be.

"… no loss of consciousness … right rib cage … femur … angulated … diminished breath sounds on the … "

Those were all words Johnny would understand. Johnny would take care of him—Mike knew that. He struggled to draw another breath, the searing pain from his leg making it impossible enough without the crushing pain he felt at each frustratingly useless breath.

He heard a staticky voice this time. "… dual IVs … Ringer's … MS, ten milligrams … transport immediately …"

Shit. He hated needles. But MS was something he knew, from that other time, and it sounded like a goddamned good idea.

Mike felt something cold on his forearm, then a hot needle, which was nothing compared to the leg. He would've laughed at the needle if he could have. Then there was a metallic taste in his mouth, and the odd sensation of his mind being pulled away from his body, as the pain in his leg, his chest, stayed with his body, and his mind went somewhere else. The pain was still there—oh yes, still there, waiting like a smoldering room ready to blow with a tremendous backdraft as soon as it got some air—but it wasn't really _attached_ to him any more. He hardly noticed as the same thing happened in his other arm.

He forgot to breathe, when his mind left his body. Then he remembered again, and wished he hadn't. He breathed in, but it didn't do any good. He tried to scream, but it ended up sounding like a whimper.

Someone put their face right in front of his. He hated that. It was Yang—he ought to know better.

"Mike?" Henry said. Damn it. Right in his face.

He tried to answer, but he couldn't get enough air in to make it work. He tried to tell Henry that he couldn't breathe—or, maybe, that he couldn't _do anything_ with the air, because why would his chest hurt so much if he wasn't breathing? He tried to talk, but it didn't work. He gasped for air, feeling his chest shred itself on every futile breath. He wished he could forget to breathe again, just stop, forever, because then the pain would go away, forever.

But then he'd be leaving Johnny. He couldn't do that. He wouldn't do that. Wouldn't leave him alone. All right, then, it was settled. He'd try to keep breathing, for Johnny. Where was he, anyhow?

He tried to ask.

"Joh …"

They didn't understand. Something was happening down by his ankle, pulling his leg, hurting it more. His mind came back to his body for a moment, and he screamed again.

Yang, in his face again. "Mike, we're going to put a traction splint on your broken leg. It'll hurt at first, but then it should feel a little better."

Someone was pulling on his foot, lifting it, oh god, please please please stop. The screaming came again, and he struggled against hands holding him down. The sounds of Velcro and of clicking from near his foot were drowned out by the screams, which he didn't think he had any of left, but he did.

The clicking stopped, and nobody was touching that leg any more. The cannonball was still there, burning, eating, hammering, but it was maybe a little bit smaller, and red hot rather than white hot. His screams, all on their own, decided to fade to moans.

One of the hands holding him down moved to take his left hand, and he latched on for dear life. It wasn't the _right_ hand, though—not the one he really needed. The fingers were too short, too cool, too smooth—all wrong.

He looked at the person on the other end of the hand he was squeezing. Len. Len would know what to do. He looked him in the eye, and tried to tell him the one thing, the only thing, that really mattered.

"Joh …"

Len nodded, and it was beautiful—he understood.

"I'll call him, Mike. He'll come as soon as he can. You hold on for him, all right?"

That's what he was doing. Len understood that. Mike's eyes filled with tears at the relief of being understood.

He worked hard at breathing, feeling the knives slide into his chest over, and over, and over. Or maybe it was somebody else's chest. He felt himself retreating away, away, away from what was happening. Someone was talking to him, but they were very, very far away. He was trying to hold on, but everything was slipping away. Maybe that's why he couldn't catch his breath—the air was slipping away with the rest of the world.

He was dragged back to the world again, screaming, or perhaps whimpering, he couldn't tell any more, as hands rolled him, and pulled him, and strapped him down onto something hard. He began to dread the sound of people counting, because whenever they got to "three," something happened that hurt him more, if that was even possible.

The voices were getting all mixed up. Everything was loud, not like the fire pump, but still too much.

"… ambulance … other guy can fucking wait, Cap … another set of hands … Ben can go with you …"

Then he was flying again. He prayed there wouldn't be a crunch this time, and there wasn't. There was a slamming sound, and two taps, and then the noise of the world was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting thrum of a diesel engine, and the starry sky was replaced by a silver ceiling.

Things faded out, and in, and out. Hands kept _doing_ things. The wrong hands, doing the wrong things. And holy shit, he was breathing, and breathing, and the crushing pain in his rib cage was getting worse every second, but the air _wasn't working_. He couldn't breathe any faster; not with those knives in there. He didn't understand what he was doing wrong. He was trying so hard to breathe right, for Johnny, but it _wasn't working_.

" … Squad 93 … cyanotic … respirations 40 … pneumo … request permission to decompress …"

"… protocol came through just in time … first time in the field … do it now, 93."

Someone got in his face again, pulling his mind back to his body again. He didn't want to be there, especially since the face that was too close was still not Johnny, damn it. Len said he was coming, though, so Mike would just keep holding on.

"Mike, a broken rib punctured your lung, and you have some air trapped in your chest, which is why you can't breathe so well. I'm going to get it out, with a needle in your chest, and it's going to hurt, but then you'll be able to breathe a lot better. Ben, I have to take the backboard strap off to get to the right spot, so hold him by the shoulders. Hard."

Mike felt hands on his shoulders, holding them down, and cold on his chest, and then someone stabbed him in the chest. It didn't feel like a needle; it felt like a fucking ice pick. He screamed, or whimpered, or whatever it was, and heard a hissing sound. He tried to breathe again, and this time, somehow, something shifted in his chest, and he could feel air moving again. It was like a balloon suddenly un-popped.

He tried to scream again—not that he needed to _try_; it was just the thing to do. This time he managed a groan. He breathed in again, and the air seemed like it was working again. Somebody had fixed the air. The knives were still there, and the ice pick, too, but the air was doing its job again.

Yang was in his face again, damn it. "Mike? Are you breathing easier?"

Mike tried to nod. Everything moved up and down, so he thought he succeeded.

"You're in the ambulance. We're on our way to the hospital, all right? You're going to be fine—just hang on."

Didn't they even know that's what he was doing?

**TBC**


	11. A Bump in the Road

**Chapter 11: A Bump in the Road**

Hank Stanley was rudely awakened just before 0400, not by the expected sound of the station's klaxon sending the crew out on a call, but by the sound of the dorm's phone ringing insistently on the desk next to his bunk. He sat up abruptly, and went to the desk. There was no good reason why anyone would be calling the station at four in the morning. No _good_ reason at all.

"L.A. County Fire Station 51, Hank Stanley speaking."

"_Hank, it's Len Sterling. I'm afraid I'm calling about Mike Stoker. He's alive, but he's bad."_

Hank's heart felt like it plummeted to his feet. "Oh, no. What happened?"

"_He was directing traffic at an MVA, and he got hit. Bad. Broke a femur and a whole lot of ribs. Punctured lung nearly got him—my medic said he almost didn't make it to the hospital. The docs__ tell me he should be fine in time, but … Hank, he's real bad right now."_

"Shit, Len. Just … shit."

"_Hank, I know you're listed as Mike's emergency contact, but … I think you oughta get John up here, pronto._"

"I … didn't know you knew about that. Of course, I'll tell him right now. Where was Mike taken?"

"_Henry Mayo Newhall hospital, in Santa Clarita."_

"All right. I'll let you know when he's on his way. Are you at the station?"

"_Yeah, we're back, but the station's stood down for the rest of the shift. Soon as we're mopped up we're all headed down to the hospital. So just send him along; you won't be able to reach me. And Hank—we'll take good care of 'em. Both of 'em._"

"Thanks, Len." Hank breathed a few hard breaths. "God damn it."

"_Yeah. That's about all one can say. Guy who hit him didn't have his lights on, and was about a hundred years old. Missed the stop sign at the bottom of a hill, and apparently didn't realize there was anything unusual going on, despite flares and flashing lights. My boy Yang took good care of Mike. But Hank, it was … it was rough. I never had a guy under my command hurt bad before."_

"Except for the worst thing, which luckily we're not talking about, it's the next worst thing, Len. No two ways about it. We can talk about it, later. In fact, I think we _need_ to talk about it later."

"_Thanks. I appreciate it. For now, I think we both have things to do_."

"Yeah. Shit."

"_Pretty much._"

Hank replaced the handset, and quietly went to the call station and got on the radio. "Dispatch, Station 51."

"_Go ahead, 51._"

"Stand down Squad 51 for the remainder of the shift. Family emergency."

"_10-4, 51, Squad 51 is out of service until 0800_."

"Station 51 out, KMG-365."

Hank returned to the dorm, dreading his task. He padded in his sock feet over to Gage's bunk. "John, wake up," he said, shaking Johnny lightly by the shoulder. "C'mon, Gage, you gotta wake up."

"Huh? Cap? 's matter?" Johnny sat up, and paled instantly when he saw the expression on Cap's face. "Oh, no no no no," he said, "please, no."

"He's gonna be okay, John. They said he'll be okay, but he needs you, right now."

"Cap, I gotta go. Please, let me go. Where is he? What happened?" Johnny's hands were shaking, and his teeth were chattering, as if he were freezing cold.

Roy heard the commotion, and woke instantly. "Cap? Johnny? What's going on?"

"Roy, go get your civvies on; you're taking John up to Henry Mayo hospital in Santa Clarita. I'll call Joanne and let her know where you're going."

Roy didn't ask questions; he figured something had happened to Stoker. He sped to the locker room, threw on his clothing, and grabbed Johnny's civvies from his locker on the way out. Roy heard Johnny's voice coming from Cap's office, so he went there instead of the dorms.

Cap was standing in the doorway of the office. Johnny was on the phone at Cap's desk.

"What happened?" Roy asked quietly.

"Mike got hit by a car at an MVA call. He's in rough shape right now, but they think he should make it."

"Who's Johnny talking to?" asked Roy.

"He's trying to talk to someone in the emergency room, but I think they're giving him the runaround. Roy, I hope you don't mind taking him up there—I stood down the squad, and John's in no shape to be driving."

"Of course I don't mind," said Roy. "What should I—"

Chet suddenly appeared in the doorway of the office, in his bunker pants and boots.

"Guys?" he said tentatively, concern evident in his voice.

Cap motioned for him to stay back, and Chet took a step back from the doorway.

Johnny hung up the phone with a clatter, and held his head in his hands.

"God damn it!" he shouted suddenly. "It's not supposed to be _him_!"

"Johnny …" said Roy.

"It's supposed to be _me_, Roy, not _him_." Tears streamed down his face, as he looked back and forth, helplessly, between his captain and his partner, unaware of the presence outside the room.

"C'mon, Johnny. Get dressed, and Roy will take you up to the hospital," Cap ordered, gently but firmly. "You call me when you can, okay?"

Chet looked on, silently, having no idea what was going on in front of him, but understanding that something bad—_very_ bad—had happened, almost certainly to someone they all knew. He stepped away from the office, into the kitchen, knowing that Johnny would not want people seeing him the way he was at the moment. He started to put on a pot of coffee, realizing instinctively that it would be needed.

As he went through the familiar motions of making coffee, he thought about what he'd just seen, and a conclusion that he'd come to a few months ago about Johnny's 'mystery woman,' and knew he wasn't going back to bed until the sun set again.

Johnny threw his clothes on blindly. He was still shaking like a leaf, so Roy grabbed someone's blue uniform jacket from the back of a chair and handed it to him. Johnny put on the jacket, and allowed himself to be led to the parking lot.

Hank Stanley took a few deep breaths, and went out to the kitchen, where he knew he had some hard questions to answer.

Chet had just finished setting the coffeemaker up, and was sitting at the table, waiting silently and patiently. Cap came in, folded himself into a chair across from Chet, and rubbed at his eyes and forehead.

"Who?" Chet asked quietly.

Cap stared down at the table silently for a few seconds. "Mike Stoker. He got hit by a car at an MVA, bad enough that he nearly didn't make it to the hospital."

"Ah, Jesus." Chet turned away, and back again. "Do you know how he's doing?"

"They think he'll make it. He's bad, though." Hank got up and messed with the coffeemaker, just to have something to do. He adjusted the pot, sighed, and sat back down again.

Neither man said anything for a minute or two. When the brewing cycle was complete, Chet stood up and poured them each a cup of coffee. He sat back down again, next to Cap, instead of across from him. It was easier not to look him in the eye that way.

"Johnny and Mike …" Chet said.

"Yeah."

Cap and Chet both stared into the deep black liquid in front of them.

"I had a lot of time to think when I cracked my head open, that time. I figured out Johnny was with a guy, once I quit bugging him about the whole 'mystery woman' thing," Chet said quietly. "I mean, I was _pretty_ sure I had it right. When I started paying attention to what he _wasn't_ saying instead of what he _was_ saying, I knew for sure I was right. I just didn't know … who." Chet risked a glance over at Hank, who continued to stare into his coffee. "You knew, though, didn't you."

"Yep."

"When did they tell you? When Mike transferred?"

"Not … exactly."

"_Before_ that?"

Cap didn't say anything.

"You _made_ him transfer, didn't you," Chet said. "They told you, and you knew one of them had to—"

"No," Cap interrupted. "No. It wasn't like that at all. They didn't _tell_ anyone. How _could_ they?"

Chet pushed his chair back, to actually look towards Cap.

"They didn't _tell_ anyone," Cap repeated. "I just … figured it out. That time, when Mike was here to do his transfer paperwork, when they were in my office—I think you barged in, actually, just as I was putting all the pieces into place. Johnny was just a little … closer to Mike than people usually get to him, and Mike wasn't flinching, or backing away, and I just … knew."

Chet frowned. "But … were you looking for it, or something? I mean, until the whole 'mystery woman' thing, until after, I mean, I never, _ever_ would've thought that either of them—"

"We weren't _supposed_ to think that, Chet. I mean, think about where we all work, for crying out loud. Even now, in 1979, how could either of them possibly _tell_ anyone?"

"I guess you're right."

They both attempted to actually drink some of their coffee. It helped, a little.

"Does it bother you?" Chet blurted out.

Hank had been considering how he would answer that predictable question, so he had an answer ready. "At first, yeah. A little," he admitted, "though I would never tell them that. I mean, we pretty much _live_ with the guys we work with. But then—no. Since I had no idea, not a clue, for five years, I realized it really didn't matter. And Johnny—well, he seemed really happy for the first time since I'd known him. As for Mike—I finally understood some things about him that I'd been puzzled about for a while."

Cap took a long sip of his coffee. Chet topped off both their cups.

"It doesn't bother me, Cap."

When Hank looked up at him, eyebrows lifted, Chet put his hands up defensively. "Uh-uh! No way, I don't go that way, nohow, no way. I just mean, the whole concept doesn't bother me, generally, and the two of them together, specifically, doesn't either. Though it would be weird if we were all still working together," he admitted. "It'd be weird even if it was a guy and a girl, if we were working together. And, uh, I guess it'll be weird seeing them together, now."

They sipped their coffee, and both their minds turned to the same topic.

"Mike's pretty bad, huh, Cap."

"Yeah. Len—that's his captain—gave me a quick run-down, and Roy explained a little to me while John was on the phone how bad the injuries that Len described could be. The broken femur probably wouldn't be fatal on its own, since the bone didn't quite come through the skin, and must not've torn through the big artery in there. But the crushed ribs punctured a lung, and that apparently sets up a whole chain reaction of problems; something about air getting trapped in his chest, compressing everything. I didn't totally get it, but Roy said that if this accident had happened a month ago, Mike would've been dead in the ambulance, because the procedure to get rid of that air pressure was only approved for field use a couple weeks ago."

"Holy shit."

Both men looked up, as Marco and Ed Jackson appeared in the kitchen.

"Cap?" Marco asked.

Chet looked at his best friend, and knew that they all had a long road ahead of them. Not nearly as long as Mike's was going to be, but long and windy. But hopefully, the road wouldn't be too narrow.

~!~!~!~

The drive to Henry Mayo, at four a.m., seemed to Johnny to take forever. He and Roy spoke not a word most of the way, until Johnny spoke urgently.

"Pull over!"

Roy flipped his hazard lights on, and pulled his car to the shoulder under a street light. Johnny flew out of the car, fell to his knees on the pavement, and threw up. There was no traffic, so Roy was able to get out and hand him the canteen that he kept in the car. Johnny silently rinsed and spat, and got back into the car.

A few minutes later, Roy exited the freeway, and followed the blue "H" signs until they reached the entrance of Henry Mayo Newhall Hospital, in Santa Clarita.

"I'm gonna go in with you. Just till I know they'll let you see him," said Roy.

"Why wouldn't they let me see him?" asked Johnny.

"It's not Rampart," said Roy. "They don't know you."

"But why wouldn't they let me in?"

"If he's in the ICU, they might not let people in," Roy said vaguely. "Let's see what happens."

Roy parked in the visitors' lot, and he and Johnny went in through the main entrance.

"Can I help you?" said the woman at the desk.

"Yeah, we, uh, came to see Mike Stoker," said Johnny. "He's a fireman, just got brought in a couple hours ago."

"Let me check for you," she said. "I don't see him on my list of admitted patients, but if he just came in, he wouldn't be on it yet."

Johnny and Roy listened as she called down to Emergency, and asked about Stoker's whereabouts. She hung up the phone, after asking a few questions and writing down the answers. She looked at Johnny's jacket, with the L.A. County Fire Department insignia. "He's in surgery right now, but the rest of your station is waiting down in the Emergency department. You can go down to the ED and join them if you like."

"Huh?" said Johnny.

"You _are_ from his station, right?" asked the woman.

"Yeah, we are," Roy said quickly. "C'mon, Johnny. Let's get down to the ER. Captain Sterling must be wondering what's taking us so long." He dragged Johnny down the hallway.

They turned the corner, and went through the large double doors that said "Emergency Department. Authorized Personnel Only." Johnny allowed Roy to lead him confidently down the corridor to the waiting area. He plunked Johnny down in the first available chair. "Stay put, Junior. I'm gonna find out what I can." Johnny cooperated, and sat in the chair, head buried in his hands.

Roy's gaze immediately latched on to a group of five men, all dressed in their blues, clustered together in the waiting area. He sized them up, and quickly picked out the one he needed to talk to. "Captain Sterling?" he asked, speaking to a fortyish-looking man with a thick blond mustache.

"That's me," the man said. "Are you John?" He looked Roy up and down, not quite imagining that he could be the one.

"No, but I brought him." He gestured to the despondent figure, sitting alone on the other side of the room. "I'm Roy DeSoto, just a co-worker of Johnny's. I, uh …" Roy sighed heavily, and looked at the other four men. "Cap, can I talk to you in private for a minute?"

"Sure thing. 'Scuse us, boys," said the captain, as he pulled Roy around a corner.

"You _know_, right? You know they're not just housemates," Roy said bluntly.

"I know. The rest of the boys on my crew don't. But I put it all together a couple months ago," Len said. "I know who John is, and that he's a paramedic out of 51s, where I assume you're also from?"

Roy nodded. "I don't have a good feeling about how Johnny's gonna do, right now."

"You're worried they won't let him in—because he's not family," Len realized.

"Exactly. When my cousin tried to see _his_ boyfriend in the hospital a couple years back, they wouldn't let him. They said family only."

"No ring on the finger, for obvious reasons, and they also obviously aren't blood relatives. Any suggestions?"

"I know they did medical proxy paperwork for each other a little while ago, but … you never know what's gonna stick in cases like this." Roy took a small notebook out of his shirt pocket, and wrote down his name and phone number. "I can stick around for a little while, but not too long. Just in case I have to go before … well, before we know whether they're letting Johnny in, here's my number. I've got some connections in high places—like the medical director of the county's paramedic program. If they don't let Johnny in, I'll get Dr. Brackett to go to bat for him. I hope I don't have to, since Johnny doesn't exactly advertise his, uh, domestic arrangements, but I'll do it if necessary."

"Thank you kindly, Roy. I do hope it's unnecessary. Our paramedics might be able to help out, too. But you rest assured that we'll take care of John as if he were one of our own. Hell, he _is_ one of our own, even if we never met him before."

Roy sighed in relief. "Thanks, Captain Sterling. Let me, uh, let's go talk to Johnny together, if you don't mind."

"Sure thing, Roy."

The two men went and sat on either side of Johnny, who hadn't looked up even once since arriving in the unfamiliar ER waiting room.

"Johnny?" Roy said.

"What'd you find out, Roy?" Johnny asked dully.

Captain Sterling spoke up. "John, I'm Len Sterling, Mike's captain. I'm very sorry this is how we're meeting. But I'll tell you, they're taking good care of him. He's in surgery right now—I think maybe my paramedics could tell you better about what happened, if you'd like to talk to them."

"Yeah. Thanks." Johnny made no move to get up, so Sterling went and fetched Yang, who had ridden in with Mike in the ambulance.

"John, I think you've met Henry Yang before, if I'm not mistaken. He rode in with Mike, and can fill you in better than I can about what's going on, okay?" said Captain Sterling.

"Okay." Johnny finally looked up. Yang had pulled a chair up in front of Johnny. Johnny met Yang's eyes, and braced himself for the news.

Yang spoke softly but clearly. "First of all, Mike's stable and out of the woods. But he's got an unstable fracture of the right femur, and quite a few broken ribs, also on the right. He had a pneumothorax, but we decompressed it en route, and they put a chest tube in as soon as he got here, so he's well oxygenated now. It was rough going for a while, though. There were no signs of other internal injuries. He had no loss of consciousness, and no other signs of head injury, so we were able to help with his pain quickly. He's in surgery now, for the ribs and lung, and then the femur. He's been in there for a couple of hours, so they should be just about finished up." Yang paused. "That's a lot to hear all at once."

"Yeah. But I got it," Johnny said, expressionlessly. He was pale and shaky, and there was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. "Roy—"

Roy didn't have to hear the rest of what Johnny was going to say to know what was going to happen—again. He grabbed Johnny by the upper arm, and practically hauled him into the nearby bathroom, when Johnny threw himself into a stall, and retched, and sobbed, and swore.

After a few minutes, he emerged, face red, eyes puffy. Roy handed him a paper cup of water, and Johnny once again rinsed and spat, then filled the cup with water and drank it down. He leaned on the sink, and took several deep breaths, letting them out shakily. Roy handed him some damp paper towels, and Johnny scrubbed them over his face, and threw them out, without a word.

He looked into the mirror, and made eye contact with Roy, behind him. "Roy, if he doesn't make it, I don't know if I can … I dunno."

"Come on, Johnny," Roy said softly. "You heard what Yang said. It's bad, yeah. But the things that would've gotten him right away? They didn't. He got good care—the _best_—instantly. And now he's here, where they can do a lot more for him. And I'll bet you anything he knows you're gonna be there when he wakes up—_really_ wakes up, none of that hazy stuff they call waking up in the recovery room. All right?"

"Yeah. I guess I hafta be all right," Johnny said slowly.

"You ready to go back out there?" Roy asked.

"Yeah. No sense hiding in here," said Johnny. "In fact, I guess the hiding is done for a while. Nobody's gonna _not_ know—not anymore. And right now, I'm not all that sure I care what happens with that. It doesn't matter. Only one thing matters." He looked up. "Let's go."

Roy took him back out to the waiting area.

The rest of the men from Station 93 had a variety of stunned looks on their faces, and Roy divined that Len Sterling had taken the opportunity of Johnny's absence to fill them in on the true facts of the situation. Roy and Johnny took their seats again, next to the group from 93s. Roy noted that Johnny was paler than ever, and still shaking.

"Uh, fellas, is there anywhere to get some food around here? I think he needs some protein in him," said Roy.

"Sure," said a stocky red-headed man. "I'll see what I can get. Brad Armstrong, by the way."

"Thanks," said Roy. "Roy DeSoto. I work at 51s with Johnny, and I know Mike well."

Everyone sat in awkward silence until Armstrong returned with two small cartons of milk and a bag of peanuts.

"Here ya go, John," he said.

"Thanks." Johnny chugged down the contents of both milk cartons, and the color started to return to his face. Roy noted that Johnny opened the pack of peanuts with steady hands. Johnny finished the peanuts. Roy took the trash from him and threw it out.

Johnny looked up at everyone around him. "Sorry," he said. "I, uh, kinda lost it. That's never happened before."

"Lord love a duck, son, nobody here's worried about that," said Sterling. "Look, let's all just sit together, and wait till someone comes through that door in sweaty scrubs to give us some good news, all right?"

"Yeah," said Johnny. "All right."

"Anything else we can do for you, John?" Len asked.

"Thanks—but all I really need is some good news."

Everyone in the waiting room looked up suddenly, as a figure in blue scrubs came through to the waiting room, as if he'd heard Johnny's words.

"Who's here for Michael Stoker, please?" he asked.

Johnny stood up quickly, followed by Captain Sterling. "Mind if I join you, Johnny, or do you want to talk on your own. You're in charge, here."

"No, you come too," Johnny said. "Let's go."

The doctor looked down at his clipboard. "Uh, Mr. Stoker is doing well, first of all, but who's next of kin?" he asked, looking up at the two men.

"He is," said Captain Sterling. "I'm just Stoker's captain."

"And you're …" the doctor continued, hesitantly, looking at Johnny.

"He's John Gage, and he's the next of kin, and that's final." said the Captain. His five foot ten inch height was not nearly as impressive as Hank Stanley's six feet four, but he got his point across quietly and with great authority.

"Hang on," Johnny said. He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket, and produced a folded up piece of paper that he presented to the doctor, who read it over.

"You're his medical proxy?" the doctor asked.

Johnny nodded.

"Okay. I'll make sure this gets in his chart."

"I need a copy," Johnny said. "I mean, I have the original at home, but I want a copy to keep on me while I'm here. In case I get any bullshit."

The doctor nodded—not really understanding, but accepting the legal facts of the situation. "All right, Mr. Gage. Come with me." The doctor took Johnny to the nurses' station.

"Lorene, can you please make a copy of this, and bring it to my office, and put the copy that I gave you into Michael Stoker's chart?"

"Sure," said the nurse. "Right away."

Johnny seemed satisfied that things were moving in the right direction, but he didn't know what to do next. The surgeon, as if reading his mind, spoke up again.

"Let's go into my office, shall we?"

Johnny looked at Captain Sterling, who just nodded. "I'll wait out here," he said.

Johnny followed the still-nameless surgeon into a small office.

"Have a seat," said the surgeon. "I'm Dr. Woods, I'm an orthopedic surgeon. First, Mr. Stoker did well during the surgery—he's a strong fellow, and hasn't let himself get out of shape like a lot of firemen do. No offense," he said, looking at Johnny's jacket.

"None taken," said Johnny. "It's the truth. And Doc, I'm a paramedic, too, so just go on and explain, and I'll stop you if there's something I don't get."

"All right." Dr. Woods cleared his throat. "The thoracic surgeon worked on him first—he can't talk to you now because we had another trauma patient come in half an hour ago. The ribs are wired together, and the lung is repaired. There was a fair amount of damage to his right lung, but it was confined to one lobe, so he may be able to get back to near normal lung capacity in time."

Johnny nodded. He knew, though, that "near normal" would never cut it for active firefighting duty, but put that thought in the back of his mind as unimportant for the time being. "How about the femur?"

"It's a bad fracture. The best way to repair it, and to ensure good healing, fast healing, was to put a rod through the marrow cavity of the bone, kind of spindling the pieces of bone to line them up and keep them in place. Then the ends of the rod are secured to the bone with screws. It's not pretty on the x-ray, but it does the job, and doesn't leave as much scarring as putting in plates."

"Can I see the x-rays?" asked Johnny.

"Sure," said Woods. "Here's the 'before' pictures." He jammed the x-rays into a lightbox, and turned on the backlighting.

"Oh, shit, Mikey," whimpered Johnny, as he saw the "before" pictures. The femur was in three pieces, with the large fragment in the middle turned at forty-five degrees to the rest of the long bone. He could see the frame of the Hare traction splint on either side of the x-ray. The bone was a mess, out of shape and misaligned, even with the traction splint in place. He made the mistake of trying to imagine what Mike's leg had looked like before splinting, and had to put his head between his knees again.

"All right," Woods said, taking down the grisly x-rays, noting Johnny's distress. "Do you want to see the post-op pictures?"

Johnny nodded, and Woods jammed the newer x-rays up on the lightbox. "Here, you can see the rod, and how the fragments are all lined up. You see the two screws up near the hip, and two down near the knee. The incision for inserting the rod is up here," he pointed to a spot near the upper screws.

"Okay," Johnny said weakly. "Pretty bad, but looks like you got him straightened out. That's a lotta metal, though."

"In all honesty," said Woods, "he'll probably have more trouble with the ribs than with the femur, recovery-wise."

"Yeah," said Johnny, "I've been there. I mean, not as bad as him, but I busted two ribs one time, when I got hit by a car, come to think of it. Ribs are awful—hurts to breathe, but not breathing ain't an option. But with enough morphine in you, you kinda forget to breathe anyhow. Gets to be kind of a balancing act."

"Well put, Mr. Gage. Right now, Mr. Stoker is in the recovery room. Once he's out of the anesthesia, we'll move him to the surgical ICU. We have him on a ventilator, just for now, because we're going to keep him heavily sedated for a little while. You understand, there's nothing wrong with him that's preventing him from breathing on his own; we just find recovery goes better if we keep patients under heavy sedation for twenty-four hours or so, and take care of the breathing part for them."

"Yeah, I know." Johnny paused. "What else? Did he lose a lot of blood?"

"Well, femur fractures bleed into the tissues a lot. Between the injuries and the surgery, he's gotten four units. But I don't think he was ever terribly hypoxic for an extended period, if that's what you're worried about."

Johnny nodded.

"I feel confident in saying that the field decompression of that tension pneumothorax saved his life," Woods said. "Frankly, when I first heard the radio report from the paramedic, I didn't expect to see a patient who would make it to my part in the proceedings."

"Yeah," Johnny said heavily. "Yeah. I know." He gulped. "I've given those radio reports, you know."

"I'm sure you have," Dr. Woods said.

Johnny rubbed his brow. "Look, I know he'll be out cold and all, but can I see him in the ICU? Please?"

Dr. Woods frowned. "We don't usually like family to see patients in the ICU. He won't know you're there, and sometimes people get upset by how patients look in the ICU, with all the equipment."

"I won't get upset. I know what to expect. And it won't make him feel any better that I'm there, but you know what? It'll make _me_ feel better. And I'm feelin' pretty crappy right now, Doc."

Dr. Woods looked Johnny over. "Well, I guess I can make an exception for you. You obviously know what you're getting yourself into."

"Yeah. I do. And right now all I can see in my head is what he woulda looked like when the paramedics got him, and in the ambulance. Going all shocky and cyanotic, and his leg all bent and twisted, and Doc? I need to see him—how he looks _now_. Not picture how he looked practically dying. Please."

"All right. Since our business here _is_ to make people feel better, after all. I'll tell you what: when he's out of recovery, I'll take you in myself. If that goes okay, I'll leave an order for you to stay as long as you wish, with the understanding that the nursing staff or the ICU doctor will let me know if either his health _or yours_ seems to be affected."

Johnny sighed in relief for the first time since he saw the look on Captain Stanley's face. He realized that was only a few hours ago, but it seemed like days ago. "Okay, Doc. Thanks."

"All right. I'll see you in a while," he said. He looked Johnny over, and added to his remarks. "You should count on it being at least another hour, so you need to get some breakfast. The cafeteria opens at six." He looked at the clock. "Or, I should say, opened at six. I'll look for you there if I don't see you in the waiting room, all right?"

"Thanks, doc, but I don't think I can manage breakfast."

Woods sighed. "Mr. Gage, your visitor status mustn't affect his health _or yours_, remember?"

"Yeah. Okay. I'll try."

"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a patient to check on."

Roy and the crew from Station 93 stood up as Johnny came back.

"He's in rough shape, but he's in good hands," said Johnny. "The doc's gonna let me in the ICU in an hour or so."

Everyone could feel the tension deflate as Johnny gave a summary of what Dr. Woods had said.

"And, I've been ordered to hit the cafeteria if I want to get in to see Mike."

Roy smiled. "Sounds like the doc's got your number, Gage. I think you're _both_ in good hands."

~!~!~!~

Johnny choked down some eggs, toast, and coffee, and was back in the waiting room, trying to keep the food where he'd put it, by the time Woods came to fetch him.

"You ready to see him?" asked Dr. Woods, who'd changed out of his scrubs and into regular clothes and a white coat.

"Yeah. Let's go," said Johnny. "Guys, I'll see you in a bit, okay?"

Nobody had gone home. Roy was planning to wait until he was sure Johnny was being taken care of properly, and the A-shift from Station 93 planned to wait until Johnny reported back with first-hand information on Mike.

Johnny followed Dr. Woods to the elevator, and they rode silently to the fourth floor.

"I'm afraid you won't have much privacy here," the doctor said, as he opened the glass door of an ICU room and let Johnny through. "I'll come back in a few minutes."

Johnny was prepared for what Mike would look like, unconscious and surrounded by tubes and equipment. He wasn't prepared for how he'd feel, seeing Mike like that. But, it was less dire than the picture that had been stuck in his head. Less dire than what he knew Yang had seen.

A chair was strategically placed on the left side of the bed, on Mike's less injured side. Johnny sat down heavily, pulling the chair as close as he could to the bed. He took Mike's hand, being careful of the IV tubing in his forearm, and held Mike's cool hand in his own warm ones. He didn't—couldn't—say anything. He just held Mike's hand in his own, kissed it, held it to his cheek, and cried.

After a few minutes, he wiped his face, and blew his nose. The box of tissues was obviously and kindly there for him, since Mike had no use for them. Johnny stood up, so he could reach up to Mike's face. He smoothed Mike's hair off his forehead, and kissed him on the cheek, carefully avoiding the ventilator tubing.

He was alive, and in time, he'd be okay.

**TBC**


	12. Olly Olly Oxen Free?

**Chapter 12: Olly Olly Oxen Free?***

_36 hours post-accident: Henry Mayo Newhall ICU._

"Mr. Gage?"

Johnny lifted his head from the side of Mike's bed, and looked up blearily.

Hendricks, the doctor in charge of the ICU, was there. "He's starting to fight the vent, so we're setting up to extubate. I think it would be best if you stepped out for a few minutes, while we get him more—"

"No."

Doctor Hendricks sighed. He'd been warned by the previous shift that Gage was insistent, persistent, but also logical. But this was a situation where he had to put his foot down. "Okay, I'll be completely straightforward with you then. Getting extubated is really unpleasant, and you don't need to see that. And he won't remember whether you're there or not."

"Doc, I don't care _what_ I see. I've been where he is, and I remembered just fine. I remember the room kinda fading in, and I remember that I thought everyone was tryin' to kill me, and there wasn't a single face in the room I knew. And I've seen plenty of extubations, so I know how awful it looks. So please, I'll stay outta the way, and I won't freak out on you, but please, let me stay where he can see me, all right? And if you hafta throw me out, throw me out. But please, let's just try."

"All right. You can be at the foot of the bed. But as soon as someone says 'out,' you get out, no questions asked. And we won't have time to be polite. Understood?"

"Understood. Thanks."

_So much for putting my foot down. _Hendricks shook his head, fetched a nurse, and gloved up.

~!~!~!~

There was static in his ears, and pain everywhere. Someone was sitting on his chest, trying to suffocate him, while someone else was choking him, somehow, from the inside. He tried to scream, but he couldn't breathe, and he tried to get away, but he couldn't move. Someone was shouting at him to open his eyes. Not a friend. His friends knew not to call him Michael. So he didn't open his eyes, and he kept fighting.

~!~!~!~

"You can't call him Michael! He won't listen to you—just call him Mike!"

~!~!~!~

Was he still lying on the ground? No, there was the ambulance after that. Maybe he was still in the ambulance. No, there were the bright lights on the ceiling after that, and too much noise, and too many people, all of them touching him, doing things to him, mostly things that hurt. This must still be the hospital. Just a different place in it. That was it.

He thought he heard Johnny, saying his name. He did! He was sure of it. If Johnny was there, then it was okay. He opened his eyes. He could only see straight ahead—too much static on the sides. But straight ahead was all he needed, because there was Johnny. He would do what the voices said, because if Johnny was there, it was okay. He knew Johnny would come—he _knew_ it.

"We're gonna pull the tube out of your throat, Mike. Try to cough—I know it hurts, but try."

He coughed. It hurt. The choking feeling got worse, and then it was gone, replaced by a burning in his throat. He coughed again, and hot knives lanced through his chest. His leg hurt. His chest hurt. Everything hurt. He wanted to go back to sleep, but everything hurt too much. He wanted to know what happened. He could ask Johnny. Johnny would tell him.

He tried to talk, but nothing came out.

"Don't try to talk, Mike," said someone. Not Johnny. So he tried again. Still nothing. His wild eyes found Johnny's.

"He just wants to know what happened. Mike, it's me, you got hit by a car, your leg is broken, and you have some broken ribs. I know it hurts real bad, but you're gonna be fine, okay? Don't try to talk, babe. Just rest."

_Okay_, he thought. _That makes sense. I'll just rest_. He closed his eyes again, and just let the people keep on doing whatever the hell they were doing to him.

~!~!~!~

Johnny stayed at Mike's feet while the nurse finished "making him comfortable," which really meant sitting him up so he could breathe more easily, taking his vitals, and replacing an IV bag. She made some notes on his chart, and left the room.

Dr. Hendricks was checking Mike's leg. "How are those toes looking, Mr. Gage?" he asked, partly to give Johnny something to do, and partly to open the conversational door.

"Warm and pink, doc."

"Good. Incisions look good, everything looks good." He looked at Johnny. "And even though you were in here against my better judgment, I think he did better with you here than he would have with you outside."

"Yeah, well," said Johnny, "You know the patient, but I know the person."

"He'll be out for a while," said Hendricks. "I just gave him more morphine, and an anti-nausea drug that's also a sedative. We're monitoring his respiration carefully, but right now, it looks good. It's getting late—do you have somewhere other than here where you can sleep tonight?"

"Yeah," Johnny said reluctantly. "I guess I do." The first night, Henry Yang had returned to the hospital and insisted Johnny come home with him, as their house was only five minutes from Henry Mayo Newhall, and Mike's place was half an hour. Henry had extended the offer for as long as necessary, with his wife's full approval. They actually reminded him a lot of Roy and Joanne, but without the kids.

Johnny had Mike's truck—someone had brought it over from the station and given him the keys—he didn't remember who, or when. So, he'd been able to get to and from the Yangs' home, which was only a couple of miles from the hospital.

Johnny called the Yangs, and they were happy to have him again. So he went, and slept the sleep of the dead for twelve hours.

~!~!~!~

Johnny went straight back to the hospital the next morning. Mike had been moved to a regular room. He was sleeping when Johnny arrived, but the nurse on duty assured him that Mike had been awake and somewhat lucid, if extremely uncomfortable, once during the night. Mercifully, there was no roommate.

Johnny settled in next to Mike's bed, with his now customary arrangement of two chairs—one for the body and one for the legs. He took Mike's hand, which was easier now, without so much equipment around. Mike seemed to be sleeping, but fitfully, frowning and clenching his hands from time to time. He tried, several times, to push the oxygen mask off his face. Whenever he did this, Johnny spoke to him quietly, touching his hands, or his forehead, or someplace else that wouldn't hurt him, and he quickly settled.

Mike woke up for real at about nine that morning, after a long period of struggling and whimpering in his sleep. He let out a hoarse moan, and Johnny was on his feet instantly.

"I'm here, you're gonna be okay," he said. "Are you waking up? C'mon, open those baby blues for me."

Mike's eyes opened slowly. His brow furrowed, and his breathing became shallow and rapid.

"I'm here, babe. I'm here. Are you hurtin' bad?"

Mike licked his lips, and tried to talk. "Really hurts," he said hoarsely, his voice further muffled by the oxygen mask. "Can't breathe, hurts too much ..." He couldn't say any more, he just stared at Johnny, eyes wide with pain, and used all his energy to force himself to breathe.

Johnny pulled the cord to call the nurse. "I know it hurts like a bitch. Squeeze my hand. Hard. Every time you take a breath, just squeeze hard. Try to slow down your breathing—that's it, attaboy, squeeze and breathe, slower, slower …"

Johnny heard the nurse come into the room, but didn't look up. "Pain's totally on top of him, and he's having trouble breathing through it. You gotta do something, now," he said. "If it's not time for more meds, you gotta call the doc."

"It's okay," said the nurse. "I can give him more, right now. He'll probably go back to sleep." Johnny barely noticed as the nurse practically pushed him aside to access the IV port.

Mike's breathing got slower, and his eyes fogged over, but stayed open. His grip on Johnny's hand loosened. He blinked heavily, and each eye shed a tear. "I'm so screwed," he said. "What happened?"

"You got hit by a car, babe," Johnny said. He got in close, and touched his forehead to Mike's.

Mike closed his eyes as the whole incident suddenly came flashing back to him. "Yeah. 'member," Mike said. He rested for a minute, building up the strength to ask his next question. He tried to force himself to stay awake.

"Leg?"

Johnny understood what Mike was trying to ask. "They fixed it up, babe. It's still there."

"Bad?"

"Yeah." Johnny had already decided he wouldn't try to hide anything from Mike—that's not how they were.

Mike closed his eyes again. "Wha' else?"

"A lot of broken ribs. Your lung got punctured. That's why it's hard to breathe—your right lung isn't working well yet."

Mike's eyes opened again. "I couldn' breathe," he whispered. "Wanted to quit. But I didn' wanna leave you." Mike's eyes closed again, and his grip on Johnny's hand went slack as he lapsed back into the gray border zone between sleep and unconsciousness, his breathing getting slower and more regular.

The nurse hovered on the other side of the bed, counting Mike's respirations.

Johnny's eyes filled with tears, and he sat down, not letting go of Mike's hand, and put his forehead on the bed, staying in that position until he heard the nurse leave the room. Once she was gone, Johnny angrily swiped a wrist across his face, whisking the tears away. He grabbed a pillow off the empty second bed in the room, took it into the bathroom, closed the door and screamed into the pillow until he was done.

~!~!~!~

Later that day, Johnny met Mike's parents for the first time. His mother was in her early seventies, and his father was nearly eighty. They had been to visit before, but Johnny had always arranged to be elsewhere, or ducked out of the room as soon as they arrived, not introducing himself. In an odd role reversal, Johnny was asleep on the unused bed when they arrived, while Mike was mostly awake, in significant discomfort after just having done some coughing and deep breathing exercises on the orders of his attending doctor.

The first Johnny knew of their presence was hearing Mike's mother talking through her sobbing.

"I _told_ you, you shouldn't have followed that crazy uncle of yours! You could've been anything, Michael, done anything! But you _had_ to be a fireman. You just _had_ to—"

"Janet," the elder Mr. Stoker said, quietly and calmly. "Stop. Stop it, right now, or we're leaving."

"'S okay, Dad," Mike said. "She's right. But tha's what I needed to do. Prolly done for good now anyhow."

Mike's mother burst into tears again, and the sound brought Johnny to full alertness. He sat up on the edge of the bed, and tried to decide how to flee. He wanted to pretend he was still asleep, but it was too late.

"But that sh'd make ya _happy_, Ma," Mike said. His eye was caught by movement on the other side of the room, and he looked over to where Johnny was, and smiled. "Hey, babe. Come over, will ya?"

Johnny approached cautiously. He knew, somehow, that they wouldn't eat him alive, but he also knew to be wary. Most importantly, though, he knew they had something significant in common, which gave him the courage to do as Mike had asked.

"Johnny, these'r my folks, Chuck 'n' Janet. Ma, Dad, this's Johnny. I tol' you 'bout 'im before, a couple times, but you did'n wanna hear it. He's the _one_, all right? So _like_ him." Mike's eyelids closed, and he dozed off, unintentionally abandoning Johnny in an awkward position.

"Um, nice to meet you, Mrs. Stoker, Mr. Stoker." That was all he could think of. He sat there awkwardly for a few seconds, and realized it would be up to him to figure out what to say next.

"He's, uh, he's a little better this afternoon than this morning. And a lot better today than yesterday. And the day before that—the first day—well. I don't think they let you in the ICU, right? But he was real bad."

"You've been here the whole time," Mr. Stoker said.

"Yeah. 'cept they throw me out at night. But I've been lookin' after him real well, okay?"

Two pairs of shockingly blue eyes looked back at Johnny. He realized that when he looked at Chuck Stoker from just the right angle, he could see about forty-five years into his own future.

"Me and Mike, we're planning on getting old together," Johnny said impulsively. "But for now, we'll just take it one day at a time. And I'll be here with him, for every one of those days."

"But—" Janet Stoker wiped away a tear. "But don't you have to go to work? You firemen have these crazy schedules …"

Johnny shook his head. "I put in for a month's leave. Work's not important now. Someone else can put the fires out, take care of patients, all that stuff, for now. That's not my job right now."

Mike's father nodded. "I'll be frank with you," he said. "I'd rather Mike had a wife here with him to do that job. But I've known for a long time that's not what's going to happen. But given that it's not, I'm man enough to tell you that I'm glad he's got someone who has their priorities straight."

"Mike would do the same for me," Johnny said, choosing to ignore the rest of Chuck Stoker's remarks. "So anyhow—I'm gonna be here through this whole thing. I can go, when you're here, if you're uncomfortable. You don't have to like me, but—"

"Oh, but we _do_ have to," Janet Stoker said. "Mike said we did. So we _do_ have to. I think, for once in his life—" her voice got shaky again—"for once in his life, I'd like to let _him_ tell _us_ how to behave, instead of the other way around."

Mike stirred in his sleep, and batted at the nasal cannula that had replaced the mask he'd kept pushing away in his sleep, and dislodging it from its proper place. Johnny carefully replaced it, setting the prongs to point into his nostrils, and looping the tubing behind his ears. Mike whimpered and batted at his face again, but Johnny took his hand and held it securely, Mr. and Mrs. Stoker temporarily forgotten.

"You're all right, Mikey. It's just me, just the oxygen." Just smoothed Mike's hair off his forehead, and sat down again in the chair next to the bed. He jumped as Mike's mother appeared on his right, near the head of the bed. She reached across and repeated Johnny's gesture, brushing Mike's fine hair away from his face.

"We _do_ have to," she repeated. "But I don't think it's going to be too hard."

~!~!~!~

The first week was a nightmare. As Dr. Woods had predicted, initially, the pain of the ribs and the struggle to breathe were much more of a problem than the well-repaired femur. Still, though, once Mike was more aware of what was going on around him, he threw Johnny out of the room every time the nurses had to move him for any reason. It was hard enough to deal with the pain of being moved without having to see the effect his yells had on Johnny.

But each day was a little less awful than the previous one. Every day, Johnny made a point of finding some milestone, however small, and pointing it out, partly for Mike's benefit and partly for his own. Today your sister could understand you when you talked on the phone. Today you sat up on the edge of the bed. Today you were awake for more time than you were asleep. Today you ate lunch without help.

Johnny's request for a month's worth of leave was approved. He was touched to hear that each of the men at Stations 93 and 51 had donated a day to his "bank," so he wouldn't even be touching his own vacation time.

Johnny was beyond caring what other people saw. If he could have physically gotten in the narrow hospital bed to hold Mike and comfort him, he would've, other eyes be damned. He settled for what he could manage, which, between the ribs, the leg, and the IVs, was not much. Johnny stopped caring who saw him holding Mike's hand, or kissing his forehead. He couldn't have cared less when some student nurse gasped and left the room when he kissed Mike full on the lips one night before he left.

All the men from the A-shifts at Station 51 and Station 93 visited in groups in the first few days. Roy and Cap were easy for Johnny to handle, since they'd known about him and Mike nearly from the get-go. Johnny found it easiest just to excuse himself when the trio of Brad Armstrong, Ben Washington, and Francisco Velasquez descended at the same time. Most people didn't stay long early on, except for Roy, who understood that Johnny needed people around who could look after him, even more than Mike needed people looking in on him. Hank Stanley also took a turn at making sure Johnny took care of himself better than he had been. But the rest of Johnny's and Mike's co-workers came to see Mike briefly, and then left when they realized he wasn't yet up for anything but brief visits.

The exception to that rule was Len Sterling. Johnny found that he had a great deal in common with Mike's captain. On A-shift's first scheduled day after Mike's accident, Len, who found he couldn't quite face going back to work yet and had called in for a sub, spent nearly the entire day at the hospital, and he and Johnny had lengthy, quiet conversations on a number of topics, in the long interludes where Mike was sleeping. And more than anyone—even Roy—Len understood the plight that Johnny was in.

"If you were a fireman's wife, all the other wives would have your back. They'd be taking care of things for you, while you were here. They'd be taking care of _you_, while you were here. But that's not how it's working for you, is it. So give me a list—laundry, mail, plants, cleaning, whatever you need—and between me and Hank, we'll make sure it gets done. And don't feed me any of this 'I can handle it' bullshit. It's not about whether you _can_ handle it, it's about whether you've got more important things to handle. And you do."

Johnny was half-dreading the time when people would start coming on their own. They'd visited in groups, daily, but the presence of a group made it mercifully unreasonable to have serious, personal conversations. Johnny knew those conversations were coming, and that if they didn't happen on their own, he'd have to start them, or risk letting things get even more awkward than they already would be.

Chet came on his own, the day after Len's extended visit. Johnny knew he was coming; Chet had called from the station at the end of their shift and asked if he could come straight up to the hospital for a visit, and if anyone else was going to be there. Johnny said yes to the first question, and no to the second—the answers that Chet wanted to hear.

A little after ten, there was a tentative tap at the door. Mike was about as awake as he'd been since just before his emergency surgery, largely because he was at the tail end of a dose of pain medication, waiting for the nurse to come put another dose on board.

"Come on in," Johnny said loudly. "And hurry the hell up, if you've got fancy letters after your name."

Chet entered the room slowly, almost tip-toeing. "No letters. Just the 'B' in the middle." He hovered at the edge of the room.

"I'm awake," Mike said. "Seriously. Come all the way in, man. There's only two rules—don't sit on the bed, and don't make me laugh. 'Cause both of those'll make me yell, and I'm sick of that." He was still hoarse, partly from nearly two days on the ventilator, and partly, he surmised, from doing a whole hell of a lot of screaming just a few days ago—or maybe it was a few years. He couldn't really tell.

Chet just stood there next to the bed for a minute. Mike looked awful—he was pale, and had an unhealthy-looking sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. But no matter how awful he looked, it was better than the first time he'd seen Mike, shortly after he'd moved to a regular room and had been allowed visitors other than Johnny.

"You're looking better, Mike. Are you feeling any better?"

"Oh, were you here before? I don't remember much. Sorry. Probably won't remember today, either. But yeah. Not wanting to just curl up and die is better. I guess." Mike closed his eyes for a second, swallowed hard, and took a few shaky breaths. Johnny reached for Mike's hand, and Mike squeezed it, hard. He was unable to prevent a sound from escaping his clenched teeth.

"You know what, Mikey? I'm gonna go get that nurse, right now. We called her fifteen minutes ago. This is bullshit." He tried to let go of Mike's hand, but found his own hand held tighter than ever.

Chet's eyes darted back and forth between Mike's ashen face and his and Johnny's tightly clasped hands.

"I'll do it," Chet said. "I'll be right back."

True to his word, Chet returned less than a minute later, trailing behind a flustered-looking nurse.

"I'm really sorry—I know this is very late," she said. She went through the routine of slowly adding the pain medication through the IV port, and then taking a new set of vitals. She watched with a practiced eye as Mike slowly unclenched, and began to breathe more easily.

"Better?" she asked.

"Yeah. Thanks," Mike said.

"I was really late—I'm sorry." She made a note in the chart at the foot of his bed. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Nope—can't think of anything else." Mike said. "In fact, I don't think I can think."

"All right," the nurse said. "We should be getting more staff by lunch time. I'm really sorry." She left the room before Mike could say anything else.

After she left the room, Johnny, still holding Mike's hand, briefly put their foreheads together, and then kissed Mike on the forehead before sitting down again. Chet stood there, finally seeing what he'd first begun to understand only a few days ago. But now that he saw them, and saw it was real, he let out a long breath, as he realized that he really _was_ okay with it. He'd told himself, over and over in the days since he knew the truth, that he was okay with this—with two of his male friends being a couple—but he had a nagging feeling that when he really saw them together, he'd suddenly run away screaming. But it didn't happen.

"Take a load off, Kelly," Mike said, letting go of Johnny's hand to gesture to a chair.

Chet sat down. "Now you really _do_ look better," he said.

"Yeah—it's amazing what a little morphine does for your attitude," Mike said. "Or a lot. How much was that, anyhow?" he asked Johnny.

Johnny got up and grabbed the chart off the foot of the bed. "Ten," he said. "Every two hours. That seems to be what works, right?"

"Does now," Mike said. "Didn't really cut it at first. So I guess that's progress. I don't really see why they can't just put the stuff in an IV bag and let it go all the time," he complained.

"You sound better, too," Chet said.

"Yeah, well, see above," Mike said.

They all sat there in silence for a moment.

"So, I guess you got the other big story," Johnny said, finally.

"Yeah," Chet said. "I figured out half of it a couple months ago—that your 'mystery woman' wasn't. A woman, that is. Still a mystery, though. I got the other half at four a.m. a few days ago." He looked between the two of them. "You won't get any trouble from Chester B., all right?"

Johnny and Mike nodded.

Chet hesitated. _This was a tough one,_ he thought. "I, uh … I guess you woulda told me if you actually wanted me to know." He looked back and forth between Johnny and Mike. Mike's eyes were drooping again.

"Sorry, man," Johnny said. "We weren't sure if you'd be okay with it." He looked right at Chet. "Are you? I mean, you said we wouldn't get any trouble from you, but are you _really_ okay with this?"

"C'mon, man, of course I am," Chet said earnestly. "You can't spend as much time being a hippie as I have and not be okay with people lovin' whoever they want."

"'kay. Thanks, Chet," Mike said, his eyes drooping more, until they finally closed. Nobody said anything for a minute or two, until they were sure he was really asleep.

Chet continued where he left off. "Love is love, man. So I'm all for people lovin' whoever they want. And however they want. And whenever they want. And—"

"All right, all right, I get the picture," laughed Johnny, the ice well and thoroughly broken. He added Chet to his mental scorecard, in the column of "people who were still going to be good friends," along with Roy, Hank, Henry Yang, and Len Sterling. The next column contained people who just couldn't handle it—a high-school friend of Johnny's ("Sorry, man. I just can't deal with this. Have a good life."), Mike's brother, who'd put himself solidly in that camp years ago.

Nearly everyone else fell into the category of "people who would pretend they didn't care," and contained the rest of 93's A-shift, Ed Jackson, Mike's parents and a couple of Mike's neighbors. Luckily, it seemed there were no members of a final category Johnny and Mike had speculated on: "people who would actively make trouble for them."

The one remaining person close to both Mike and Johnny who hadn't fallen firmly into any category was Marco. They knew he wasn't the type to fall into the "trouble" group, but it was apparent that he wasn't adjusting well to knowing that two of his male friends were intimately involved with each other.

But compared to everything else that was going on, the discomfort of Marco's visits was nothing. Johnny decided to leave the room for Marco's first solo visit, to spare everyone some of the awkwardness. On subsequent visits, he stayed, but kept to the other side of the room. Marco didn't say anything of substance to him. When Johnny tried to talk to him, Marco responded with one-word answers, and wouldn't look him in the eye.

Mike noticed. "We're still the same two people we've always been. Just try to think of that," he said out of the blue to Marco on his third visit.

"I'm trying, man. You can't ask anything more of me than to try. But I'm trying as hard as I can, and it's not working," Marco replied.

"Well, then, keep trying," said Johnny. "'Cause this is the way it's gonna be, Marco."

~!~!~!~

Towards the end of the first week, Roy and Joanne had come up on a weekday when Roy had the day off and the kids were in school. Mike insisted that Johnny leave for a while, and let Roy stay in the hospital room. Between Roy and Mike, it was arranged for Johnny to be sent off with Joanne for the day. She told him to get in the car, and they drove straight north, until they were far from the hospital, and even farther from L.A.

Joanne finally stopped the car at a picnic area, and Johnny, who had slept heavily from the instant the car pulled out of the hospital parking lot, blinked and looked around, not understanding where he was. "You go on," she said. "I'll stay here and read. Oh, and take this," she said, handing him a knapsack containing a towel, a thermos, and some sandwiches. Johnny took it, mystified. Joanne got out her book, and sat at a picnic table, while Johnny got his bearings.

It was a beautiful place—a pine forest, with richly scented fresh air. There were widely spread out campsites along a dirt road, but nobody was there in the middle of the week. Johnny found a trail, and followed it, not caring where it led. He breathed in deeply, grateful for the lack of hospital smells. He listened to the sounds, and didn't hear a single beep or bell, no heels clicking in the halls, no typewriters clacking rudely in the middle of the night. No moans or whimpers, no sobbing. None of the sounds, smells, or sights that had become his world over the last week.

When the trail ended after a short half mile, Johnny finally realized where Joanne had brought him. The trail ended at a beautiful natural swimming hole. This was the park where, over a year ago now, Station 51's erstwhile A-shift had gone for a camping trip. Where Johnny and Mike had found each other, touched and kissed and loved each other, for the first time. Where six months later, they'd had the best week of their lives together.

Johnny fell to his knees by the side of the water. The horrors of the last week poured out of him, as he grabbed and threw handfuls of stones, shouting, swearing, and sobbing, till he had nothing left. Totally drained, he stripped off his clothes, and left them in a pile on a flat rock at the edge of the water. He threw himself into the water, not caring or even noticing how cold it was, and let the cold, clear water wash away the rest of the pain.

When he couldn't take the cold any more, he got out of the water, dried himself off, and got dressed again. He climbed up to a sunny spot at the top of the cliff—the same rock where he and Mike had sat together before they left the campground to head back to the real world. Johnny said a silent apology to the water and the sky, for having brought and dumped his mental garbage into this beautiful place.

As he finished his apology, he saw a large bird circling in the sky overhead. He looked down to the water, and saw a fish jump and splash back into the water. And on the edge of the woods, two squirrels chased each other up a tree. Seeing the creatures of the water, air, and land, Johnny knew his rage and despair hadn't damaged the place where he'd let it all out.

He ate the sandwiches. He opened the thermos, and drank the strong, hot coffee. And, just as he had last time he sat here on this rock, he felt ready to go back to the real world. He packed everything back into the knapsack, and walked back up the trail, and found Joanne still sitting at the picnic table.

"I'm ready," he said.

**TBC**

*A/N: One of many, many variants of the phrase used to end a game of hide-and-seek. It is thought to come from the phrase "**All ye, all ye 'outs' in free**;" in other words: any players who are "out" may come in without losing the game.


	13. Do Not Disturb

**Chapter 13: Do Not Disturb**

After a month in the hospital, Mike was transferred to inpatient rehabilitation at Rampart. With such a badly broken leg, he'd need physical therapy anyhow, but the added complication of many broken ribs made it difficult to use crutches without pain. He'd been using a wheelchair to get around at Henry Mayo, but would need to be able to be up on crutches before he could get home.

Just before Mike started rehab, Johnny had to go back to work. Mike felt terrible that he was actually a bit relieved that Johnny wouldn't be there all the time. Rehab was hard work, really hard, and sometimes it was easier when he didn't feel like he had to worry about Johnny as well as himself. Plus, the rehab policy was that there were no visitors allowed—none—during therapy time, unless the patient was nearly ready to go home, and the PT staff was teaching the family something they would need to know at home.

Johnny felt terrible that he was relieved to go back to work. He'd been at Mike's side more or less constantly for the last month, and while things had gotten easier as Mike got better, it was a tremendous strain. "Real life" had come to a crashing halt after Mike's accident, and nothing about their days or nights was normal. And, even though work was stressful, to Johnny, it was his real life.

The night after Mike was transferred to Rampart, Johnny slept at his apartment for the first time in weeks. He'd been there once or twice over the month Mike was at Henry Mayo, just to pick things up, drop things off, pull moldy things out of the refrigerator, and other mundane tasks. But over the last year, it had stopped feeling like home—it was really just a place to crash after a long shift. Mike and Johnny had agreed months ago that it made sense for him to keep the apartment for that reason, but in reality, they lived together at Mike's house.

A few days after Johnny went back to work, he and Mike had a terrible argument the first time that Mike insisted that Johnny stay home on a day off instead of hanging around Rampart while Mike was busy with his physical therapy. After grudgingly leaving the hospital that morning, Johnny had debated with himself where he would spend that day—at his apartment, which was, after all, closer to Rampart and to Station 51, or at Mike's house. It was a very brief debate—the apartment was barren and sterile, and held nothing of Mike's in it except a toothbrush and a change of clothes. So he spent the day at the house, doing mundane housekeeping, laundry, and other domestic tasks. It was all so _normal_, and somehow relaxing. By the end of the day, he'd realized Mike was right—Johnny pretty much had two full-time jobs now, and needed a day every now and then where he wasn't doing either of them. Late that afternoon, Johnny returned to Rampart at the earliest time that Mike had said would be okay for him to come back.

When he arrived at the rehab unit, he ran into Dixie, who had just popped upstairs to say hello to Mike after her shift ended. Dixie had been surprised and disappointed not to see Johnny there. She had figured out long ago that Johnny and Mike were involved, and, frankly, she was dying to see them together openly.

"I'm glad you're here," she said. "The rehab nurses said Mike hardly said a word all morning. He talked to me a little just now, but really only enough not to be rude. Maybe you can figure out what's going on."

"I already _know_ what's going on," Johnny said glumly. "We had a huge fight, is what. And he was right, and I was wrong. And he probably thinks I'm really mad, and he probably thinks it's all his fault, but I'm not, and it's not."

"You want to talk about it?" Dixie asked.

Johnny began to automatically dismiss this offer for help. "Nah, I can—" he stopped suddenly. "Yeah, Dix. Yeah, actually, I do."

They walked to a small lounge area by a big window at the end of the hallway, and each took a chair.

"I, uh, guess you kinda know about me and Mike by now, right?" Johnny asked. "I mean, I guess everybody does."

"Yeah, Johnny. I figured it out the first time I saw you together—that day when Roy had the flat tire in the squad, probably a year ago."

"Huh," Johnny frowned. "That obvious, huh?"

"Only to a trained and open-minded observer," Dixie said, smiling. "I'm glad it's worked out for you two."

"Yeah, Dix. Me too. It's worked out real well. I just hope that now that the whole world knows that we're—ah, never mind. That's not what I meant to bring up." Johnny cleared his throat. "So, uh, what happened was, I had the day off today, and Mike made me go home," said Johnny, "and we got into a big fight about it."

"Hmm," Dixie said neutrally. "Go on." She was pretty sure she could guess what the argument had been about. If she'd seen it once in her years as a floor nurse, she'd seen it a hundred times.

"I was _so_ mad when he made me go—I mean, I felt like he didn't want me around, didn't want me to help. But then, once I was home? I realized—Dix, I'm totally fried. The last five weeks, I've either been at the hospital, in the car, or sleeping. Or sometimes two of those things at the same time, it seems like. And now, I'm also at work every third day. And that's it. So yeah, he was right—I needed to get out," Johnny admitted. "He could see it, but I couldn't."

Dixie nodded. "I think you're right about what happened today—but I also think you should be prepared that there might be more to it than that."

Johnny frowned. "Like what? I mean, I'm gonna admit he was right—I needed a break. What else is there?"

Dixie sighed. "Johnny, this is something we nurses see a lot when one member of a couple is suddenly thrust into the role of the caregiver. You're aware now how burned out you're feeling—that's good. But there might be some things bothering him about the situation, too, that might be hard for him to acknowledge. In fact, he might not even really have totally worked out how he's feeling, or why he's feeling that way. But I'll give you my guess, for what's it's worth, if you want it."

"Yeah, Dix. I want it. You always know what you're talkin' about, ya know."

"Well, not _always_," she laughed. "But here's what I think—I've seen this happen over and over with couples. The person in the hospital—well, they certainly appreciate the help and the support of their, uh, spouse. In fact, they _need_ it—it's essential to know your spouse is part of the team supporting you, getting you better. But—and this is a tricky thing, Johnny—they may start to miss their 'real' spouse."

Johnny furrowed his brows and tipped his head slightly. "I don't think I'm following."

Dixie continued. "For the patient, it can feel like the person they love, the person they spent their normal days with before the event that landed them in the hospital, is gone, and has been replaced by a person who takes care of them, worries about them, makes arrangements for them, sticks up for them, and does all sorts of things for them. And the person in the hospital misses the person they went grocery shopping with, watched TV with, had dinner with, argued about petty things with, snuggled on the couch with, made love with, woke up next to, and had breakfast with. That's their 'real' spouse, not this person who spends all their time at the hospital."

Johnny sat there silently for a moment. "I guess I have kinda been a mother hen," he admitted.

Dixie shook her head. "No, no; don't think of it like that. He _needs_ your help, and your care—and he's going to keep needing it after he comes home. And, he may not _like_ needing it. But he _also_ needs just plain Johnny."

"Yeah, well I'm not even sure who that is anymore," said Johnny. And as soon as he realized what he'd said, he knew that once again, Dixie was absolutely, completely correct in her assessment of the situation. "So, Mike probably isn't either," he concluded.

"You got it, Johnny. That's _exactly_ the problem."

Johnny put his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. "All right, how do I fix this? Wait, I know, there's no easy fix, right?"

"Afraid not, Johnny," Dixie said gently. "But I can offer a couple of suggestions."

Johnny nodded. "Anything. Lay it on me."

"Try to find other people who can spend time here to help when needed. Make your visits _count_—do as many of those 'real spouse' things as you can in the hospital, and try to back off from doing the 'maintenance' things—that's what the hospital staff is here for. And try to live at least _some_ of your life the way you did before he got hurt. Go to work—you're doing that again. Spend some time at home—you started doing that today. Have a beer with Chet. Spend time with the DeSotos. Things can't be normal for Mike now, but the more normal time _you_ get, the more the 'real spouse' can come back." She paused. "Does that make any sense?"

Johnny nodded, slowly. "Yeah, it does. I think I was spending so much time taking care of him that I was forgetting just to _be_ with him." He sighed. "And I think maybe that's what our fight this morning was _really_ about, whether we knew it or not."

"Yeah, Johnny, it probably was."

They sat silently for a little while.

"Hey, Dix?"

"Yeah, Johnny?"

"Thanks for the advice."

"Any time, you know that."

"And, uh," he hesitated, not sure how to put this, "thanks for saying 'spouse.' There's not really a good word for us. But I'm glad you see us kinda like regular married people, even though we aren't, 'cause we kinda are, too. And I don't think people get that."

Dixie smiled. "But you two do. And I think a lot of your friends are starting to get it."

"Yeah," said Johnny. "Maybe they are, Dix. Maybe they are." He let out a heavy sigh.

Dixie frowned. "That sigh was a lot heavier than should've come after what you just said. Something else on your mind?"

"I, uh …" Johnny scrubbed at a dark spot on the floor with the toe of his shoe. "Nah. It's too weird."

"Try me," Dixie said gently.

Johnny worked on the spot some more, and didn't look up for a bit. When he did, he had a pinkish tinge to his cheeks. "It's just that … well, if he were a girl, which he's not, obviously, I'd'a put a ring on his finger by now, which is a ridiculous thing to say, since he's not a girl, and—and … well—you know. There's just no way to … ah, forget it. I don't even know what I'm trying to say." He went back to bothering the spot on the floor.

But Dixie nodded. "I think I see what you mean. Couples of the opposite sex can get engaged, and get married. They can show the world they mean to be together forever. You and Mike, though—not only is there no … how should I say this … no generally recognized way to do that, and no legal recognition even if there _were_ a regular way to do it, but you also have to worry about how your relationship is going to fly in your workplace. Especially now that circumstances have made it more public than you probably wanted."

Johnny put his elbows on his knees, and rested his forehead in his hands. "Boy, you said it, Dix. I mean, it's not like he and I haven't told each other a million times that we're playin' for keeps. I'm not so good at sayin' that stuff, but he … inspires me. And the other thing—yeah, we can't exactly flaunt it, can we, and still have a job in the morning. I mean, if Mikey hadn't had this accident, there'd still be only about five people who knew we were a thing." He looked back up at Dixie. "Well, five people where we _knew_ they knew we were a thing. 'Cause I sure didn't know you knew. Ya know?" He shook his head. "Geez. I can't even make any sense at all, can I."

"You're making perfect sense to me, Johnny. You're in an unfair and frustrating situation."

Johnny snorted. "Boy, you got that right. But, I guess it's good that our friends know now. Mostly. I had one buddy walk away for good when he heard, which sucks. And Mike's brother—well, he's never been cool. And—well, there's one of our buddies from 51s who maybe isn't, uh, adjusting too well. But other than that—I guess people are being pretty polite. I just wish … I dunno. Maybe in twenty years things will be different. Maybe they won't. But right now, in 1979, it is what it is. I just wish …" Johnny trailed off and didn't continue.

"You can't get married," Dixie said, cutting right to the point. "And that's not fair. But you can be spouses to each other. _You_ know that's what you are, and _he_ knows that's what you are. And I think, with a little work, you can get back on track while he's still in here, like we were talking about before."

Johnny nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we can. Thanks, Dix."

"And on the same topic, Johnny? What I said about doing as many 'real spouse' things in the hospital as you can?"

Johnny blushed, but Dixie forged on ahead.

"I don't know if you're ready to go there, but … a simple 'Do Not Disturb' sign can be _very_ useful. I can tell you from personal experience, having walked in on an incredibly wide variety of … activities … that the hospital staff don't mind a little warning. Really, they ought to sell 'Do Not Disturb' signs in the gift shop."

Johnny was tomato red. "Geez, Dix." He cleared his throat. "But, I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

~!~!~!~

Johnny stood outside Mike's door. For the first time, he felt like he should knock before going in. So he did.

"Come on in!"

Johnny entered the room slowly. "Hey," he said.

"Hi," said Mike. He was sitting totally upright, reading a magazine. His aluminum crutches were leaned precariously against the table at the left side of the bed.

They looked at each other for a few tense seconds.

_Normal spouse things, _Johnny thought. _Just be normal._

So he strode across the room, moved Mike's crutches from the side of the bed, planted his knee solidly on the bed next to Mike's left side, slid his arms behind Mike's back and neck, and kissed the living daylights out of him. The magazine fell to the floor, unnoticed, as Mike pulled Johnny in as close as he could, then closer still. Johnny felt his face getting wet, and he wasn't sure which one of them was crying, as the kiss went on, and on.

They finally parted, and stared at each other.

"God, I missed you like crazy," said Mike, through his tears. Johnny gently took Mike's face in his hands, and wiped the tears away with his thumbs. They both understood now that Mike didn't mean he just missed Johnny while he was at home today.

"I love you so much," whispered Johnny, "I just didn't know what to do. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Just, uh," Mike pulled Johnny back towards him, wincing as his ribs protested, and kissed him again, and again. "Just be my Johnny, okay? I think he got a little lost for a while, but I really, really need him." They were entwined together, Johnny half on the bed, half off. And they stayed that way for a long, long, long time.

~!~!~!~

The next day, Johnny slept in, for the first time since Mike's accident. He didn't feel guilty about not being at the hospital with Mike first thing in the morning—Mike had said he would be busy with PT all morning, but had agreed that Johnny could come spend the two-hour break between morning and afternoon physical therapy sessions with him.

Johnny made himself a huge breakfast—again, a first since Mike went into the hospital. On Johnny's very first run to Rampart on his very first day back to work after Mike's accident, Dr. Brackett had made him stand on the scale, and had given him a stern lecture about taking care of himself. Johnny had lost ten pounds, none of which he could afford to lose, during the four weeks Mike had been a patient at Henry Mayo. Brackett had given Johnny an ultimatum: put five of those pounds back on in the next four weeks, or be pulled from work until he regained the weight.

After breakfast, Johnny thought about his conversation with Dixie the previous day, and thought about how he could do a better job of being Mike's "real spouse" for the remainder of the time Mike was at Rampart. He wandered around the house, partly to pace, and partly to get ideas from seeing the home where they lived together. He pulled an afghan off the couch, folded it up, and set it on the dining room table. He went into the desk in the spare room, and pulled out some markers and a piece of paper, and took them into the dining room as well. He worked on the paper for a minute or two, and then on a second page, and finally took the markers back to the office. He rifled the desk until he found a roll of tape, and added that to his pile. He stopped in the bedroom, grabbed a bag out of the closet, and tossed in some items from the nightstand, along with the tape from the office, and headed to the dining room added the afghan and the rest of the pile from the dining room table to the bag.

On the way to Rampart, Johnny stopped at a Chinese takeout place around the corner from Station 51, and picked up one of each of his and Mike's favorite dishes. He pulled into the visitors' lot at Rampart. He debated stopping at the ER to give Dixie his thanks for her advice yesterday, but saw a squad and two ambulances at the back entrance, and decided just to go in the main entrance like a regular human being. He took the stairs up to the fourth floor, and entered the rehab unit.

The nurses' station was at the center of the floor, between the inpatient rehab wing and the outpatient PT clinic.

"Hey, Judy," Johnny called, as he passed the desk. "Morning stuff all done?"

"Should be—Mike just came through on his crutches, looking like they'd worked him pretty hard."

"Yeah?" said Johnny. "Well, I guess that's what it's about, ain't it. I'm gonna go on through, okay?"

To make the rehab unit seem less hospital-like, the staff replaced all the room numbers with slots for name cards of the rooms' occupants. Johnny passed by Harriet, Jeffrey and Patrick, and knocked on Mike's door.

"Come in!"

Mike was looking tired and glum, but brightened when he saw who his visitor was.

"Hey! How was your morning?" Johnny asked, setting his bags down on the empty bed. He smoothed the hair from Mike's forehead, and leaned in for a kiss. He found himself pulled close, with such strength he nearly lost his balance. He held on until Mike let him go, and looked him over carefully.

"It sucked," Mike said flatly. "It was hard, and embarrassing, and painful, and I don't want to discuss it."

"Okay," Johnny said neutrally. "We won't discuss it, then. 'Cause I brought Chinese for lunch, how 'bout that?"

"They let you?" Mike said skeptically. "They're kinda strict about the food thing."

"Aw, well, 'they' just don't hafta know, then, do they?" Johnny got out the food containers from the first bag, and set them on the bedside table.

"Yeah? Well someone's gonna walk in any second now with what I'm _supposed_ to eat, and she won't be happy to see this." Mike opened the container and sighed in delight. "Sesame chicken, mm. Maybe I can get into this before the aide shows up with the crap they call lunch."

"I'll bet you can," said Johnny, opening the outside pocket of the other bag, "'cause look." He pulled out a sign, lettered as neatly as he could manage.

I HAVE A VISITOR. PLEASE KNOCK AND WAIT. THANKS.

"Really? You think they'll go for that?" said Mike around a mouthful of food. "Aw, man, this is awesome."

"Yeah, really," said Johnny. "It's not the ICU, and it's not _jail_, you know." He extricated the scotch tape from the bag. "Be right back."

Johnny popped outside, and taped the sign over the small glass panel in the door, right at eye level. He went back into the room, and grabbed his own carton. "Scootch over, Stoker."

"We gonna fit?" Mike started working his way over to the right side. He reached the very edge, and decided to raise up the rail, which allowed him another couple of inches of safety.

"Only one way to find out, babe. Brackett's on my case for getting too skinny, so I won't need much room."

Mike got as far as he could towards the bedrail, and then some. "Ouch," he complained, and adjusted a bit. "That's better. I think that was one of those damned screws that's holding me together. Here ya go—plenty of room for your skinny ass. Skinny, but perfect," he amended. He patted the bed, and Johnny climbed in carefully.

"See? No problemo."

"What'd you do this morning?" Mike asked around a mouthful of takeout. "Damn, this is so good."

"Slept in—don't know how _that_ happened. Had breakfast—real food, you'd've been proud. After that, just puttered around the house, really, then came over here."

"You stayed at the house?" Mike asked in surprise. "Your place is so much closer. Not that I mind, but …"

"Well, that apartment's just a crash pad, ya know? Not really home. Hasn't been for a long time."

"Even since, uh," Mike gestured to his leg, "you know."

"Especially since, 'uh, you know,'" Johnny said emphatically.

There was a knock at the door. "Mr. Stoker?" a female voice said tentatively.

Johnny hopped out of the bed. "I'll get it." He opened the door, and found a timid-looking young woman holding a tray. "Thanks," he told her. "I'll take this off your hands." He closed the door again, leaving the aide just standing there.

"See?" he said, settling himself back into the bed. "Once again, no problemo."

"Yeah, but they'll sure notice that I haven't eaten any of that tripe when they come to take it back."

Johnny lifted the cover. "Aw, it's not that bad. I'll take care of it," he said. "Pretty much doctors' orders, anyhow." He plopped his nearly-empty takeout container onto the tray and started working on finishing a double lunch.

After a few more minutes, Johnny had nearly cleaned up the entire tray. Mike was slowing down with his meal. "Huh," he said. "I used to be able to polish this off with no problem."

"Yeah, well, that's what happens after a month of hospital food," said Johnny, "on top of not having much of an appetite. Here, gimme."

"Nuh-uh," said Mike. He picked up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks and held it up halfway between himself and Johnny. Johnny leaned over to delicately pluck it off the chopsticks with his teeth, chewed it up, and swallowed, never breaking eye contact with Mike.

Mike held up a piece of broccoli, closer to himself this time. Johnny carefully flipped himself over onto his side, leaning even closer. He crunched the slightly underdone broccoli, waiting to see what would happen next. As he was finishing that piece, Mike plucked the last bit from the carton—a piece of sweet red pepper—and held it delicately between his own teeth, setting chopsticks and the empty carton aside. Johnny grinned wickedly, and flipped himself again, so he was carefully straddling Mike's legs with both his knees. He leaned in so close this time that their noses touched, as he gently retrieved the provocatively-offered morsel. He chewed, nuzzling Mike's face and neck the whole time.

"Carton's empty," Johnny whispered into Mike's ear. "We cleaned our plates, so how 'bout some dessert?"

"I've got room for that," said Mike, rolling onto his undamaged left side and pulling Johnny down towards him as best as he could. "I really hope they read that 'please knock' sign," he said.

"Hmm, hold that thought," said Johnny. He carefully extricated himself, and showed Mike the other sign he'd made.

PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB.

There was a little smiley face at the bottom of the sign.

Mike laughed. "That oughta get their attention. You better put a chair under the doorknob, too." He propped himself on his elbow to see what Johnny was doing.

"Consider it done." Johnny popped out again with the roll of scotch tape. He came back in, and shoved a chair in front of the door.

"You're a bad, bad, boy, Gage," said Mike. "And damn, I sure do hope those girls out there can read. Now where were we?"

"Dessert course," Johnny said, easing himself against Mike, looking in his eyes as he slipped an arm under Mike's neck. Slowly, Mike slid his bad leg over Johnny's top leg, wincing a little. "Okay?" Johnny inquired.

"Yeah. Leg's okay. Hip is stiff. Ignore it," said Mike, "'cause I'm gonna."

"'kay," said Johnny. He adjusted a little, so his top leg went between Mike's.

"Mm," said Mike, as he pulled Johnny's upper body closer. Their lips met, their tongues found each other, each tasting the other's mouth, gently and tentatively at first, but with increasing intensity as the minutes passed.

Mike's hands roamed, untucking Johnny's customary flannel shirt from his jeans and finding the hot skin underneath his t-shirt. "Shit, babe, Brackett's right," Mike said, feeling ribs that were more pronounced than he liked, and feeling jeans that were not as tight as he was used to them feeling.

"You'll just have to keep feeding me, then," Johnny murmured into Mike's neck.

Some time later, Mike lay basking in Johnny's arms. Any discomfort in his ribs or leg was completely suppressed by the flood of endorphins their activities had produced.

"You're a complete lunatic, Gage," Mike pronounced when he was able.

"I do my best," Johnny said.

"Hey, you know what that reminded me of?" Mike said suddenly. "Having to be all sneaky and quiet and everything?"

"A certain camping trip?" Johnny asked, smiling.

"Uh huh," said Mike.

There was a knock at the door.

"Shit!" said Johnny, as he quickly but carefully climbed out of the bed and gathered up various items of clothing, distributing them as fast as he could.

"Just a minute!" Mike said loudly. They scrambled to make themselves decent, with Johnny helping Mike as needed.

Mike looked at Johnny and laughed. "Uh-oh, looks like we switched shirts," he said. "You'd never wear that color!"

"Nobody'll notice," Johnny said confidently. He sat in his traditional chair, on Mike's left side, and put his feet up on the edge of the bed, attempting to look casual and unhurried.

"Come on in!" Mike hollered.

The door swung open, and Chet Kelly walked in, hands over his eyes. "Is it really safe to come in?" he asked. "The girl from the kitchen wants your dishes. She made me knock, 'cause she was too scared!"

"Sure, Chet; perfectly safe," Mike said nonchalantly.

Chet uncovered his eyes, took one look at Mike and Johnny, and burst out laughing. "Do Not Disturb," he said gleefully, "with a little _smiley_ face! And Gage," he said, pointing at Johnny, "there's no _way_ that's your shirt."

**TBC**


	14. Take Me Home Twice

**Chapter 14: Take Me Home (Twice)**

_Ten days later_

Johnny pulled Mike's pick-up truck into the driveway, and shut the engine off. Mike didn't stir—he'd been asleep from the moment they got onto the expressway, thanks to the higher dose of painkillers the doctor had suggested to make the ride home easier. Johnny got out, went around to the passenger side, and opened the door. He leaned behind the seat to pull out the aluminum crutches, and leaned them against the side of the truck.

Mike's eyes fluttered open, and he looked around. "Home," he said. "We're actually home."

"Yeah. We really are." Johnny held the crutches up. "You ready?"

"You bet. It's funny—nothing actually seems _real_. But yeah, I'm ready. Let's go."

Johnny helped Mike swing his legs out of the truck and onto the ground, and steadied him as he transferred his weight onto his left foot. He was allowed to put as much weight on his right leg as he felt he could tolerate, but at the moment, that wasn't much. With a practiced gait, he swung himself up to the front door.

"Hand me the keys, will you?" Mike asked.

Johnny would have been happy to unlock the door, but had learned that if Mike wanted to do something himself that he was really able to do, he shouldn't argue. He handed Mike the keys, and stood back while Mike balanced on his crutches and his left foot, and unlocked and opened the door.

Mike navigated the threshold easily, and stood in the foyer.

"Uh, could you do my shoes?" he asked Johnny.

"Sure." Johnny took the right shoe off with great care, and then looked at the left shoe. "Um, little problem."

"Huh?" Mike looked down. "Oh, yeah, I guess you can't exactly take that off while I'm standing in it, can you. Oh well, it won't immediately destroy the floor if I just take it off later, will it?"

Johnny smiled. "No, probably not."

Mike made his way to the living room. From there, he could see the kitchen and the dining area. He noticed that everything was very tidy and clean—immaculate, in fact. After some frustration on both their parts, they'd settled on a level of tidiness for the house that was midway between Johnny's "put it where you want" philosophy of object placement and Mike's strict "put it where it goes" philosophy. But Johnny had obviously spent a lot of time putting everything where it went, as well as cleaning.

"You didn't have to do all this," Mike said.

"Well, I wouldn't want you to trip over any of my junk, would I?"

"You're not _that_ bad," laughed Mike.

"Uh, let's put it this way—the place got a little out of hand in the last couple weeks, and I wanted your house to be nice for you today," Johnny said sheepishly.

Mike wandered through the rest of the house, just getting his bearings. He stared at the kitchen, which was similarly tidy. The bathroom— "Did you _paint_ in here?"

"Uh, yeah. Kinda scratched up the walls when I installed the grab bars."

Mike hadn't actually noticed the bars—he was so used to seeing them at the hospital that they didn't look out of place in his bathroom. "Wow. Thanks," he said.

The second bedroom, half guest-room, half office, looked like it was occupied. Mike looked at Johnny.

"I, uh, couldn't sleep in your room without you," Johnny admitted. "Kinda moved in here."

Mike went to the end of the hall, and opened the bedroom door. "_Our_ room," he said to Johnny. "It's _our_ room."

"Yeah," Johnny said quietly. "It is again."

Mike turned adeptly on his crutches, and kissed Johnny lightly. "And now," he said, "I'm gonna go use _our_ bathroom, and go back to _our_ bedroom, and take a nap in _our_ bed, 'cause I'm so damned tired I can hardly stand up anymore."

"Do you need—" Johnny stopped himself. "Okay. I'll be right here."

Johnny moved some things out of the spare room, and put them away in the bedroom. He heard a flush, then water running, and then the clunking of the crutches as Mike came into the bedroom. Mike leaned the crutches against the wall, laid himself down onto the bed, and sighed luxuriously.

"Good lord, that's glorious," he said. "It's flat, it's firm, it's quiet, it's not white, and it's ours."

Johnny took off Mike's left shoe, and joined him in the bed. "And, there's lots of room for two." He curled himself around Mike, who was looking up at the lazily spinning ceiling fan blades.

"Mike?" Johnny said suddenly.

"Mmm?"

"I wanna ditch the apartment."

"Yeah?" Mike became more alert, and propped himself up on his elbow. "For real?"

"For real. See, here's the deal—you know how when Dwyer got divorced, and his ex-wife got the house, he had to move way the hell away from the station?"

Mike nodded, having been well filled in on the goings-on at both Stations 51 and 93 during his convalescence.

"Well, he crashes in the dorms for a couple hours after an all-nighter. And Cap says that lots of guys are doing that now—nobody can afford to live in the city, and it's not safe to drive home after an all-nighter, so the department turns a blind eye to guys crashing at the station for a couple hours after a bad shift. The on-duty shift sure ain't usin' the bunks. And all three Caps are cool with it. So I could do it too."

Mike considered this. "You sure?" They'd talked about Johnny giving up the apartment before, but it always came down to having a nearby place to crash after a bad shift. Plus, Mike suspected, having a separate official address and phone number was also a factor, though they hadn't discussed that.

"Yeah." Johnny hesitated. "I was kinda thinking, we could get another phone line put in here—each have our own number, you know, for official business?"

Mike decided not to mention that after the last seven weeks, the fact that they pretty much lived together had become a very poorly kept secret. "Sure. That's a good idea," he said. "And you already have your P.O. box, for official business."

"And I'll pay half the taxes and utilities, which'll be a lot less than my rent. That all sound okay to you?" Johnny asked. He was conscious that he was pretty much inviting himself to move into the house that Stoker owned.

"Best thing I've heard all day," Mike said sleepily. "Even tops signing the discharge papers. C'mere," he said, pulling Johnny's arm over himself.

Johnny sat up briefly to put a pillow under Mike's right knee, then snuggled up against Mike's left side, holding him close.

Mike's leg ached, and his ribs were sore, but he didn't care. He was held securely in the arms of his lover, as they lay in _their_ bed, in _their_ room, in _their_ house.

~!~!~!~

_Six weeks later._

Dr. Kelly Brackett was a busy man. In addition to being the medical director for the L.A. County EMS program, and working full time in Rampart's emergency department, he had also become the L.A. County Fire Department's go-to man at Rampart for firefighter return-to-work certifications. He had counterparts at Henry Mayo, Harbor General, and the hospital in Palmdale, so most injured firefighters went to the hospital that was closest to where they lived for their post-injury evaluations. But Brackett knew that he'd be seeing Mike Stoker, even though Rampart was not the nearest hospital to his home—he knew Johnny wouldn't trust strangers with Mike's care unless he had to.

Kel hadn't been as surprised as most people to learn that Johnny had paired off with another man. He'd always sensed that there were things about himself that Johnny kept hidden from the world—that there was a big piece missing in the puzzle that was John Gage. When Johnny had suddenly, nearly three months ago now, disappeared from the famous DeSoto/Gage team, Brackett had asked Roy what was going on. Roy had requested that they discuss the matter in Dr. Brackett's office, and calmly explained what had happened. A year's worth of question marks suddenly disappeared from Kel's mind. He thanked Roy for his explanation, and assured him that nothing that Roy had said would leave the office.

"I'm guessing that's going to be a moot point," Roy had said. "Everyone on our shift knows, now, and on Mike's shift, too. And people on the other shifts at our station wondered why Johnny was gone all of a sudden, just like you did. We tried to explain that Mike was a really good friend of his, and didn't have family who would help him out, but as soon as people visited Mike in the hospital, and saw the two of them together, the secret was out. And Johnny's having a hard time with everything—not just Mike's situation, but the fact that everybody knows something he'd rather they didn't. So when he comes back, please be really patient with him."

Brackett had indeed been patient with Johnny. He could have taken him off work for being underweight, but he knew that would do more harm than good. He made sure to look in on Mike when he transferred to rehab at Rampart—not just as the fire department's representative, but as a friend of Johnny's. And the first time he saw Johnny at Mike's side upstairs in the rehab unit on the fourth floor, he felt he understood Johnny better than he ever had.

Dr. Brackett was happy to be seeing Mike for the next step in his recovery. His duty today was to evaluate whether Mike was ready to return to light duty—a desk job, probably at HQ. He did a thorough evaluation of Mike's physical capabilities in that respect, and, almost—but not quite—without either him or Johnny noticing, evaluated his emotional status. Just as he was finishing his exam, there was a knock at the door, and an orderly came in with an envelope containing the x-rays that had been taken at the beginning of their appointment.

"So, what's the verdict, Doc?" Johnny asked.

"Well, gentlemen, let's look at the pictures while we're talking," said Dr. Brackett. He jammed Mike's latest and greatest x-rays into the lightbox.

With the obvious exception of a long metal rod and four screws, Mike's femur looked good. All the pieces of bone had grown together, straight and without gaps. When he wasn't tired, and hadn't been doing too much weight-bearing, he could get away with using just a cane to help him walk. But much of the time, he still needed the crutches.

"I have no idea what I'm looking at, here," admitted Mike, "but from your faces it looks like good news."

"The x-rays look good. Your strength has come along quite well. You can get around, and you're not getting winded with walking. The stairs still seemed tough, endurance-wise, but that'll come, if you keep up with your exercise program. Everything looks great, Mike," said Brackett. "I can clear you for light duty any time."

"That's great, Doc. Thanks," Mike said quietly. "I'm really going out of my mind, just sitting around."

Brackett looked at him seriously. "But Mike, we should talk about what's next. You know you can't go back to active firefighting duty with that much hardware in you. It can come out, after closer to a year, if need be, and it's not a major procedure. But really, the major problem is that your lung capacity is reduced. I can't guarantee that you'd pass the pulmonary function tests that would even clear you to try to recertify on the physical agility testing. It's possible, that with hard work, you'd be able to—"

"I don't want to go back."

Brackett was relieved by Mike's quiet pronouncement. The sentence Mike had interrupted was going to end in "but I have to say that it's pretty likely that your lung capacity will hold you back."

Johnny looked up at Mike. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Look, Johnny," Mike said, "I know we haven't really talked about it, and I know if it were you, you'd want to do anything you could, put yourself through whatever you had to, to get back to the job. And I'd back you all the way. But it's not you—it's me. And pretty much as soon as I really understood how bad everything was, I knew I was done," he said quietly.

"Okay," said Johnny. "Okay." He cleared his throat. "I guess I pretty much knew that too, from the first day, but I just didn't want to think about it."

"I'm fine with it—honest. I'll take whatever desk job they have, till I'm really back on my feet, and then I'll take it from there. There are plenty of things I can learn to do within the department that will pay just fine and be interesting enough to keep me on board," Mike continued. "And I'm sorry I haven't really talked to you about it—I'm just so sick of thinking about anything having to do with this accident that I couldn't stand to bring it up till I had to. Sorry."

"Mike, it's fine," said Johnny. "Really."

"You know, you'd be perfectly justified in applying for medical retirement," said Dr. Brackett. "I'm usually on the review panel, and I can tell you right now you'd probably get retirement with full benefits. I've seen guys with line-of-duty injuries a lot less serious than yours get it."

Mike shook his head. "Thanks, Doc, but no thanks. Gotta be doing something useful, you know?"

"I do. And you will be. So how about this: today's what, Tuesday? I'll clear you for desk duty, but no driving, as of this coming Monday. That'll give HQ some time to set you up with something temporary, till you work out what you really want to do. How does that sound?"

"It sounds good, Doc. Honest, I can't wait to get out of the house." Mike stood up, ready to leave the hospital as soon as possible.

"All right, Mike. You're a free man," said Dr. Brackett. He completed the return-to-work form, and signed his name and credentials in a scrawl, and handed the form to Stoker.

"Thanks, Doc," said Mike.

"Yeah, thanks a million, Doc," said Johnny.

"Oh, one last thing," Dr. Brackett said.

"Sure, Doc," said Mike, sitting down again. "What is it?"

"Not you, actually, Mike. Gage, step onto the scale, please."

Johnny groaned. "Aw, Doc! I'm tryin', honest!" But he complied with the request.

Brackett moved the balance weights, and sighed. "Better, Johnny, better. But you need a few more pounds. You're still down five pounds from the last checkup you had before Mike's accident. I need to see five more for me not to have to think about putting you on leave, and ten to make me happy. Mike, see what you can do with him, huh?"

Mike looked at Johnny seriously. "Between-meals Breakfast of Champions, extra large, coming right up."

"Yeah, yeah," grumbled Johnny. "C'mon, let's go home."

~!~!~!~

In the truck, Mike rubbed his hands with glee. "Back to work! I'm going back to work! I don't care _what_ they make me do, 'cause I'm gonna be _doing_ something! Hey, let's stop at HQ and drop off this form, so they can start working on something for me."

Johnny smiled at Mike's happiness. "Sure, why not? It's hardly out of the way, and it's only ten o'clock."

They drove on for a couple minutes.

"Hey, lookee there," said Mike. "McDonald's drive-through. I think one of us needs a large order of fries. C'mon, Gage, you heard the doc."

"Geez, Mike; I can't eat fries while I'm driving!"

"Okay, then; we'll stop. We're not in a hurry, right?"

Johnny knew better than to argue with Mike about this. "Okay."

They got Johnny's fries, and a shake, as long as they were there, and sat down in a booth.

"I'm not mad, you know," Johnny said suddenly.

"Mad?"

"About you not wanting to try to go back to active firefighting duty. It just took me by surprise, I guess. Even though I kinda knew that was the way it was gonna hafta go," he admitted.

"Yeah," said Mike. "Sorry about that—I didn't mean to blindside you; I really didn't. I just honest to goodness couldn't stand to think or talk about what was gonna be next."

Johnny worked on his shake a bit. "You talk to Cap'n Sterling yet?"

"I, uh, talked to him yesterday, just to tell him I was seeing Brackett today. I don't think he'll be surprised," Mike said.

"He's a good guy," said Johnny. "He's pretty perceptive, too. He probably knows already."

"Hmph. Yeah, I wouldn't bet against you on that one."

"All right," said Johnny, crumpling his cup, "milkshake and fries, down the hatch. Let's hit HQ."

~!~!~!~

Johnny waited in the truck while Mike went inside to drop off the form at the department headquarters. He was keenly aware of the fact that Mike was in a risky position—someone at HQ must have heard by now about their relationship, right at a time when Mike was going to have to find a new path within the department. He didn't think it would help Mike any to have his boyfriend tagging along on his errand, so he stayed where he was.

Mike returned shortly. "Mission accomplished," he said, hoisting himself into the passenger's seat and closing the door.

"Great! So, where to? What now? We've got most of a day to work with here."

Mike looked at Johnny seriously. "Well, I did have one thought occur to me, but I'm not so sure what you'll think of this one."

"Try me," Johnny suggested.

"Yes, that's part of the plan, for sure," laughed Mike.

"What? What's your big plan?"

"I was thinking," he said, "we could go back home, and strip each other down, and we could leave a trail of clothing from the front door to the bedroom, and then …"

Johnny listened raptly as Mike laid out his plans in detail. He was glad he hadn't yet started driving. He was thrilled to hear Mike's speech—that in-charge aspect of Mike's personality had been absent since the accident, and Johnny had really been missing it.

"How's that grab you, Gage?" Mike asked.

"More like _where_ does that grab me," Johnny pretended to complain. "I'd show ya, if we weren't in the parking lot of HQ. But yeah, babe, that grabs me real good."

"Good," Mike said smugly. "Let's go home."

**TBC**


	15. What You Can't Do, and What You Can Do

A/N: in the "seventh season," we see Roy and Johnny promoted to Captains. How did that happen, anyhow? Can you see either one of those guys as an Engineer? Nope. Didn't think so.

**Chapter 15: What You Can't Do, and What You Can Do**

That night, Johnny and Mike had plenty to talk about over dinner. They'd decided to go out for dinner, to a cheap, hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese place they both liked. They went out partly as a little bit of a celebration that Mike was cleared for light duty, and partly because Mike felt the need to be out of the house as much as possible, because when Johnny was on shift, Mike was more or less trapped at home for over twenty-four hours at a time. With Mike's still-healing right leg, and both vehicles in their household having manual transmission, it would be a while before he was able to drive again.

"Remember, back on our famous camping trip, we were talking about the 'what-ifs,' and I said I might look into the arson investigation unit?" Mike said, while Johnny slurped some noodles.

Johnny nodded. "You gonna do that?"

"Yeah—I'll definitely look in to that, first thing. But I guess I have to take things at work one day at a time—I mean, I have to see what they're gonna do with me, first of all, when I get to work—work!—on Monday. It's a little weird, actually, not having any idea what they'll do with me. I sure hope it's not just sitting at a desk with nothing to do, just because they're obligated to keep me on the payroll," Mike said.

"Nah," Johnny said. "They might do that with some dumb-ass who they knew was an idiot and couldn't be trusted with anything. But they know you're smart. They'll come up with something reasonable. I'll bet you, in fact."

"Oh yeah?" Mike said, with interest. "What are the stakes?"

Johnny leaned across the table and whispered something in Mike's ear.

Mike grinned. "All right—I'll take that bet. I mean, it's a win-win proposition, if you ask me. So, if they have me doing something boring like filing or alphabetizing or sorting of any kind, you win. If it involves reading things or any actual thought, I win. Deal?"

"Deal."

They shook on it.

"Oh, and if we can't decide who won, we both pay up," Johnny added.

"Hmm, that sort of thing usually ends up going that way anyhow, you know," Mike said.

They ate their noodles, not entirely in silence, as Johnny couldn't restrain himself from making slurping noises. Mike tried to glare at him, but ended up bursting into laughter.

"What?" Johnny said innocently. "In many Asian cultures, it's perfectly acceptable to slurp your noodles." He picked up his bowl. "And to drink the broth right out of the bowl. Henry Yang and his wife taught me that when I was staying with them when you were cooped up at Henry Mayo." Johnny demonstrated, and received a world-class eye roll from Mike.

"Anyhow," Mike said, "I don't really care what they make me do. At least, not at first. I just need to be the hell out of the house, doing something. And it's awfully nice of Mrs. Daniels to offer drive me on the days when you can't—I was worried about that."

Their across-the-street neighbor, a retired teacher whose husband had died a few years ago, had been a lifesaver after Mike's return from the hospital. She'd looked in on him a couple times per day when Johnny was at work, and had driven him to appointments a few times as well.

"Yeah, we owe her big time," said Johnny. "Mowing her lawn for the rest of our lives doesn't even come close. We'll have to figure out what else we can do."

Mike dropped his napkin on the floor, and scooted his chair back to pick it up. As he did so, his aluminum crutches went clattering to the floor, drawing the attention of everyone in the place.

"Sorry," he said to the other customers, as Johnny hopped up to get the offending items. "Damn—I'll be glad to be rid of these. Though they're better than the wheelchair, that's for damned sure." Mike held the crutches upright after Johnny handed them back to him. "I'm done, anyhow—how 'bout you?"

"Yep."

They left a tip on the table, and headed back to Johnny's white Land Rover. Mike executed a perfect transfer up into the high vehicle, and Johnny closed his door for him.

As they were driving home, Johnny spoke up. "You know, I've been thinking about a bit of a job change, too."

Mike looked over at him. "Yeah? Like what?"

"I think I'll take the Engineer's exam."

Mike sighed. "You know, when Roy did that a couple years ago, he passed with flying colors, and then decided not to take the promotion, because he'd have to quit being a paramedic. I'm sure you'd pass—and I'm sure you'd be good at it. It's just that I can't imagine you as an engineer—not for five seconds. It's just … not you."

"Yeah, but it's safer, and it's the next step. I could always do like Roy, and defer promotion, if it just doesn't seem right when the time comes." Johnny drove silently for a minute, and then continued. "It's just an idea. If you think it's stupid, I don't hafta do it."

"I don't think it's stupid," Mike said. "I just think you'd be miserable as an engineer. You'd be perfectly good at it—but miserable. Now, being a captain? _That_ I can see you doing."

"Well," Johnny said blandly, taking a curve with extra care to avoid making Mike shift his weight or brace himself, "you know as well as I do that Engineer is the one and only stepping stone to Captain. You can't skip it."

"Well, I think that's dumb," Mike said. "Outdated. The history of it was, they wanted the guys who were trained in all aspects of firefighting to go on to be captains. Thirty, forty years ago, that didn't include rescue men, or paramedics. I think they oughta let senior firefighters who are trained in other specialties go for a captaincy without having to be engineers first. If they don't do that, they're gonna start finding they aren't getting enough good captains, if you ask me. Take you, for example. You were a rescue guy for what, three years before you did the paramedic training?"

Johnny nodded. "I took the rescue training not too long after my probie period. Seemed like the natural way to go."

"So you've got not one, but two areas of expertise under your belt," Mike said. "And keep your mind out of the gutter for five seconds, Gage—I see that smirk. You know what I mean. So why should they make you waste your time as an engineer before taking the captain's test?"

"Damned good question, Mikey. With no good answer."

Johnny pulled the Rover into the driveway.

"What about this," he said, as he helped Mike out of the vehicle. "What if I got together with Roy, and wrote to the Ops Chief, and petitioned for an exception."

"Huh," Mike said. "Roy's thinking about it, too?"

"Yeah," Johnny said, as he opened the front door. "We were both talking about doing the engineer's test again, after, you know."

"Just say it, Johnny. After I got hit."

"Yeah." Johnny flopped himself down onto the couch in the living room. "Yeah. After you got hit. And damn it, engineers are supposed to be the safest ones."

Mike sat down carefully on the couch next to Johnny, and leaned his crutches up against the end table. "I'm gonna be fine, all right? I'm fine with not going back to active duty, I'm fine with working on getting in to something else, and I'm getting to be fine with how things are coming along with the leg. Slow, but fine. And I'm great with how things are with you and me. And in a few more months, or maybe a year, I'll be going hiking in the woods with you, and mowing the lawn, and all that stuff. I'm gonna be fine."

Johnny took his hand, and turned it over between both his own. He planted a kiss on the palm, and folded Mike's hand closed. "I know ya will. I just …"

Mike waited patiently, but Johnny didn't continue.

"You just what, babe," he said quietly, holding Johnny's downcast face gently, caressing Johnny's cheekbone with his thumb.

"I, uh …" Johnny cleared his throat. "If you hadn't'a made it, I don't think I woulda made it either."

"I made it," Mike said, slipping an arm behind Johnny and pulling him in closer. "All right?"

Johnny let himself be pulled close, and wrapped himself around Mike on the couch, taking care not to squeeze his ribs or put pressure on his right leg.

"Worrying about the what-ifs—that's the downside of love," Mike said. "But it's the only one. Right?"

"Yeah," Johnny said into Mike's shoulder. "You're right."

~!~!~!~

Johnny was back on shift the next morning. Roy found him sitting pensively at the kitchen table.

"What's up, Johnny?"

"Huh? Oh, uh, let's see … Mike got signed off to start light duty on Monday."

"No kidding? That's great!" Roy said. "So why the long face?"

"Well, we kinda had that whole discussion with Brackett about what's next. As in, Mike isn't gonna be able to go back to active duty," Johnny said.

Roy nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I didn't figure he was going to be able to. Was that a surprise to him?"

Johnny shook his head. "Naw. Mike interrupted what I'm sure was Brackett's carefully prepared speech to say he'd decided he didn't want to go back. He'd been thinking about it. He knew it already. And I guess, even though I didn't wanna think about it, I knew it too. Pretty much from day one. But to hear him say it—'I don't want to go back,' just like that—it was … weird."

"Weird?"

"Yeah. The thing was, and don't tell 'im I told you this, all right? Half of me was so sad for him I wanted to cry like a baby, but the other half of me was jumpin' up and down like a maniac, because he wouldn't ever be in that job any more where you look death in the eye every third day. So yeah, it was weird. And then last night, we were talkin' about what's next for both of us. And I was sayin' about how maybe I oughta try for Engineer, and he helpfully pointed out I'd be miserable, which I _know_—but ya know, Roy, I just don't ever want him to hafta feel how I felt. When he got hit." Johnny took a sip from his coffee cup, and put it down again, not looking at Roy.

Roy fiddled with his own cup. "Must be something in the air," he said.

"How so?"

"Oh, just that Joanne and I had one of our 'conversations' last night about pretty much the same thing—how dangerous my job is, but how she knows it's really the only thing I want to do, et cetera et cetera. But this time, she added a new twist—that I should think about how I might be getting too old for this kind of work."

Johnny's head shot up. "Too old for—Roy, that's ridiculous! You're thirty-two! That's not too old, if you keep in shape like we do!" He caught his breath, after his mini-tirade, and started again. "But, truth be told, I can see where she's coming from." He saw the look on Roy's face, and backpedaled a bit. "Now listen—don't think I'm tryin' to take her side in whatever argument you two had, because I'm stayin' outta that. But here's what I have to say." He took a deep breath, and plunged forwards. "The part of me that was jumpin' up and down like a maniac? That part kinda made me think about how I don't ever want him to hafta feel how I felt. I mean, I'm gonna start looking in to what else I can do. And I wanna talk to you about that."

"I'm listening," Roy said, astounded by every word coming out of his partner's mouth. "Believe me, I'm all ears."

"See, Mikey had an interesting thought. That the reason you have to be an engineer before being a captain is that engineer training used to be the only specialized training there was. So you did fireman, then engineer, then captain. But now, there's all sorts of other specialties. So why not let people who are highly trained in other areas go for captaincies too? Think about it, Roy—you and me, we're rescue men, and paramedics. The captain supervising us was never either of those things—and he's a great Cap, and he keeps tabs on us regardless of him not ever bein' a rescue guy. So why couldn't you and I do it? Why should we be, I dunno, I guess 'penalized' is the best word, for doing one specialty versus another?" Johnny leaned back, arms folded, and stared at Roy.

"Who are you, and what have you done with my crazy partner?" Roy asked. "Wow, Johnny—that all makes complete and total sense."

"Well, Mike gets the credit for most of it. But I think he's right. And what I think we oughta do is write to the chief of operations, and ask for an exemption. Ask him to let us take the Captain's test—as a start. See how it goes. See if they feel like they could make us captains. And then maybe at some point, there might be other senior paramedics or rescue men who knowthey don't wanna do a stint as an engineer," Johnny said.

Roy nodded slowly. "All right, Junior. Looks like we've got ourselves a project. And I know who we oughta talk to first."

"Sure—of course. We'll talk to Cap today; see what he thinks," Johnny said.

"He thinks it's a great idea," said a voice from the doorway.

Johnny and Roy both jumped.

"Sorry, boys—wasn't trying to eavesdrop. But it seems to have happened anyhow." Cap pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. "I just was coming out of my office to grab a cup of joe, and I heard you, Johnny, talking about Mike's interesting—and correct—historical perspective on the chain of promotion. Actually, it's been coming up recently in the higher levels of the department. You probably don't know this, but the department has a problem."

Johnny nodded. "I betcha Mikey predicted this one, too. Lemme guess: a couple years ago, maybe there weren't quite enough guys going for engineering, 'cause they didn't wanna leave their other specialties? And now, not enough people taking the captain's exam?"

"Gold star for Mr. Stoker," Cap said. "He had it exactly right. In fact, Roy, it was right around the time that you declined the engineering position that the department started to figure out this might become a problem someday."

"So what's the brass gonna do about it?" Johnny asked.

"The brass," Cap said, "is taking plenty of time, as usual, to get things fixed. But the upshot is, things may be changing, soon. So what I'd suggest to you two, if you're serious about this, is to write a letter to the Ops chief, like you said, and see what happens. What I'm imagining is that you'd have to pass the engineer's written and practical exams, as well as the captain's exams, but that perhaps they'll stop requiring people to serve time as an engineer before moving up, if they have technician-level training and a good number of years of experience in other areas."

Johnny laughed. "'Serve time' sounds just about right. Mike was sayin' I'd hate it, and I'd have to agree. It sounds like a prison sentence, if you ask me."

"I confess, my years as an engineer weren't the highlight of my career," Cap said. "But anyhow—here's what I'll do, for my part. I'll write a letter too, recommending both of you for any pilot program they may be considering along those lines."

"Wouldja, Cap? That's great! Thanks a lot!" Johnny said. "Roy, let's start today, all right?"

~!~!~!~

The station had a quiet morning. Johnny and Roy got most of the way through a draft of their letter, with Cap looking over their shoulders much of the time. Ed Jackson, the engineer who replaced Mike just over a year ago, added his two cents.

"I don't think there's anything about being an apparatus operator that gives me any experience for command. What I do think, though, is that since I'm not in the heat of the action, I get to see more of the big picture, standing back at the engine. Sure, I have to pay plenty of attention to what I'm doing, but there's also some 'stand back and observe' time. So maybe that's part of it, too—that time to observe, and see the whole operation from a relatively safe and quiet position. But the pump ops and driving itself? Nope. I don't see how that's really relevant. Except I guess there has to be a back-up for if the operator goes down—but that seems like a dumb reason to require potential captains to have years of experience as engineers."

"Huh," said Roy. "That makes sense. But I'll tell ya, us rescue guys have to hang back sometimes unless or until something goes really wrong, too, so there's time for us to see the big picture sometimes too."

"For sure," Johnny said. "Hey, we oughta put that in our letter—not to make it look like anyone's lazy, but just that we also hafta just take it all in sometimes, to get the—"

BWAM, BWOOP BWEEP! "_Squad 51, possible heart attack, 2156 Floral Ave., 2-1-5-6 Floral Ave., cross street Beckett. Time out: 1125_."

"They're playin' our tune, Roy. Let's go."

They arrived at their destination in less than five minutes.

"Hurry!" screamed the woman on the front steps, as she waved them in frantically. "Hurry! It's my husband! I think he's dying!" The woman looked to be in her late thirties, and was wearing an apron, as if she'd been working on doing the dishes when the event happened.

"Ma'am, do you know if he's breathing?" Roy asked, as he and Johnny got all their equipment out.

"He's not—he just grabbed his chest, and fell forward on the table. I pulled him up—and I think he was still breathing, a little bit, kind of gasping, but then he stopped, and now he's all blue!" She led them into a dining room, where a man who looked to be in his mid forties was sitting in a chair with a high back, arms splayed out to his sides, head tipped back over the back of the chair.

Johnny and Roy quickly grabbed the man out of his chair and laid him on the floor.

"No pulse," Roy said, as Johnny cut the man's shirt up the front and started CPR, hitting him with breaths of pure oxygen from the resuscitator between sets of compressions.

Roy fired up the biophone, and called Rampart, at the same time prepping EKG leads.

Rampart requested a strip—the line was flat.

Johnny started getting out the drugs that Rampart would be likely to order, and listened as the expected orders came through over the radio and Roy repeated then back. Epinephrine, bicarb, fluids—all the things to try, but nothing did the trick.

Johnny tried not to look at the woman while they worked on her husband—work that both he and Roy knew was likely to be futile.

"Continue CPR and transport as soon as possible," came the orders from Rampart. Both Johnny and Roy knew there was nothing else they could do.

Roy took over CPR while Johnny packed up their equipment.

"Then he's not dead?" The woman asked Johnny. "He's still alive? You can still save him?"

Johnny knew what he had to say, and he hated it. "Ma'am, I'm not a doctor; only a doctor can say whether there's still a chance."

"Please," she said. "Please be honest. It looks bad, doesn't it." She watched, nearly impassively but with tears streaming down her face, as the two ambulance attendants and Roy loaded the man onto the gurney and into the ambulance. Roy and one of the attendants would trade off on CPR; Johnny would take the squad to Rampart.

Johnny nodded. "Yes, ma'am. It looks bad. His heart wasn't beating at all when we got here, and none of the things we tried got it started again."

The woman sunk to her knees on the floor, right in front of Johnny, and started weeping.

Just a few months ago, Johnny was at a total loss in these situations. This woman's partner in life, the person she loved and lived with, was probably dead. He didn't used to have any idea what that would feel like.

But now he had an inkling. He hadn't been in that exact situation, but he'd been damned close.

He knew there was nothing he could do to make her feel better, but that there were things he could do to help the whole thing be less bad.

"Ma'am, is there someone I can call for you? Someone who could go with you to the hospital?"

She didn't answer for several long seconds, and then nodded. "My best friend, Jane Harper. She lives around the corner. Her number is on the fridge."

"All right. I'll call her for you right now. What's your name, ma'am?"

"Brenda Little."

"I'll call her now."

Johnny didn't try to say anything to her like "it's going to be okay," "everything's gonna turn out fine," or other platitudes, like he used to, sometimes. He knew it _wasn't_ going to be okay, and that everything _wasn't_ going to turn out fine. And Mrs. Little knew it too.

He went to the kitchen, and made the call. It was about as horrible as he'd expected it would be. He returned to the dining room to wait with Mrs. Little.

She was sitting on the floor, cross-legged. Tears were streaming down her face, and she was looking straight at the wall, not at anything in particular.

"Your friend will be here soon," Johnny said, as he sat down on the floor. He was going to start picking up some of the debris that was a consequence of the attempted rescue—wrappers, caps, empty ampules, backing papers from electrodes, scraps of this and that—but he decided just to sit on the floor and wait quietly instead.

"Are you married?" Mrs. Little blurted suddenly.

"Uh … not quite," Johnny said. "I live with someone."

"Well, get married," she said. "Do it—as soon as you can. Because you never know when something terrible is going to happen. And then, if it does—_when_ it does, you'll know you did everything you could."

"I, uh … I understand what you mean," Johnny said. _And I'd do what you said if I could, but I can't_.

"You'll know that you did everything you could do to show each other how you feel, and show everyone else, too," she continued, not looking at Johnny, or anything. "People think it doesn't make a difference—it's just a ring, just a piece of paper. But they're wrong. It made a difference for us."

"How long have you been married?" Johnny asked, carefully not using the past tense.

"Only a year. But it was the best year of my life. Of _our_ lives," she corrected. "So if Barry really is dead, at least I'll know his last year was his best one."

Johnny sat there, not knowing what to say to that.

"I don't know why I'm so calm," Mrs. Little said.

_Neither do I_, thought Johnny.

The door opened suddenly.

"Brenda? Brenda? Are you here? I got a weird call, from a fireman who said—"

The other woman barged into the dining room, and saw Johnny sitting on the floor next to Mrs. Little. Her hand flew up to her mouth.

"Oh, no," she said. "Oh, Brenda, I'm so sorry. Let's go to the hospital, right now. Thank you for calling, uh, Mr., uh, fireman. And for waiting."

"You're welcome," Johnny said.

Brenda Little's friend, together with Johnny, helped her from the floor. As Johnny helped Mrs. Little to her friend's car, she turned to him suddenly.

"Remember what I said. Get married—because then you'll know you did everything you could."

Johnny went back inside, and cleaned up the mess that it had seemed disrespectful to work on a few minutes ago. He left the house, locking the thumb-lock on the front doorknob, and sat there on the front steps of the Littles' home for a minute or two, collecting his thoughts before getting in the squad. Mrs. Little had just been suddenly thrown into the same situation Johnny had been thrown into a few months ago: one minute, everything was fine. And the next—nothing was. By a stroke of luck—the paramedics' newly authorized ability to decompress a tension pneumothorax—Johnny and Mike's situation had gone one way, while the Littles' had gone the other.

He couldn't do what Mrs. Little suggested. It wasn't possible. But he understood _exactly_ what she meant.

Johnny slowly got into the squad, and drove to Rampart to meet Roy.

~!~!~!~

The outcome had been as expected—Brackett called it about five minutes after Roy arrived at the hospital with their patient. Roy and Johnny had a silent cup of coffee in the staff lounge, and then trudged out to the squad. They were silent for nearly the entire way back to the Station.

"Hey, Roy?" Johnny said suddenly. "Pull into that parking lot for a minute, will ya?"

"Sure." They were only a minute from the station, and had called in as available, so there was no harm in pulling over for a private chat, which is what Roy knew Johnny had in mind. Roy pulled the squad into the back of the parking lot Johnny had pointed out, turned the engine off, and waited.

"They'd only been married a year," Johnny said. "She told me. She said it was the best year of their lives. And you know what else she said?"

Roy shook his head.

"She asked me if I was married, and so I just said I was living with someone. She said, 'get married.' That it's different, even if you think it won't be." Johnny looked over at Roy. "D'you think that's true?"

Roy sighed, knowing there was no right answer that would help Johnny, in his situation. "Yeah. Yeah, Johnny; I think it's true. You know, Joanne and I lived together for a while before we got married. Yeah, I know," Roy said wryly, observing Johnny's expression at this heretofore unknown fact. "Practically scandalous for 1967. And we were practically kids. But then we thought, what the heck. We didn't have a big wedding. We didn't want to. Sure, it made her mother plenty mad, but nothing would satisfy her. We weren't totally convinced, either, that it would feel different. I mean, we never would've had kids without getting married first, and we got married when we were nineteen, and we were planning on waiting for a while for the kids anyhow. But we decided to do it—to get married—and I can't even really remember what made us decide to do it right when we did. But yeah. It was different."

Johnny nodded. "Okay. Thanks." He looked straight forwards, through the windshield of the squad, for many seconds.

Roy didn't drive on; he knew Johnny well enough to know he wasn't done yet.

Johnny practically whispered when he spoke again. "I almost lost him, Roy. It was so close. _So close_ to what happened today. And damn it, Roy, I can't—" Johnny's voice broke a little— "I can't do what she said. I know she's right—I _know_ it. But I can't. We can't."

They sat there silently for a minute more, both looking straight out the windshield. Finally, Roy turned to his partner, the person he was closer to than anyone but his family, the person he'd spent one out of every three days with for the last—was it really that long?—nearly eight years.

"So there's something important you can't do—it's true, and it stinks. But what about what you _can_ do, Johnny? What _can_ you do, to get that sense of permanence, importance?"

Johnny thought about Roy's words. "Sense of permanence—I like that. Even though it's just a _sense_—because nothing's permanent. But yeah, Roy. That's a good idea. I'll try to think about what I _can_ do, instead of what I _can't_."

"Good," Roy said, relieved he could offer something useful to Johnny in this situation.

"Let's go," said Johnny.

Roy drove the squad back to the station. The two paramedics got out, and realized they were both heading for the phone in the dorm at the same time, and for the same reason.

"You go ahead," Roy said. "I don't think Jo's home anyhow."

"Thanks."

Johnny called home, and Mike picked up right away.

"_Hello_?"

"Hey, it's me."

"_Hi! What's going on_?"

"We, uh … we just had a real bad run. I just wanted to hear your voice, is all."

"_Sorry, babe. You wanna tell me about it_?"

"Yeah. It was a sudden cardiac death—guy was probably only in his early forties, no heart history. His wife saw him collapse, and called us right away, but there was nothin' we could do. He was flatlined already when we got there."

"_That sucks_," said Mike. "_Especially for the wife_."

"You're not kidding. Roy went in with the ambulance, and I actually stuck around with the wife till her friend came over, because she wasn't lookin' so good. Mikey, they'd only been married a year. And then that was it."

"_Geez._" Mike paused for a minute. "_I wish I could come take you home right now_."

"Yeah. Well." Johnny cleared his throat. "I love you a ton."

Mike found his eyes getting misty—Johnny almost never said that when he called from the station. Even though everyone at the station knew about their relationship, Johnny was still wary of being overheard when they talked on the phone. "_I love you right back. I'll try you after dinner, all right?_"

~!~!~!~

Just before lights out, Johnny was in the station's office, typing up the letter he and Roy had drafted during the day. They'd had remarkably few calls, which was fine with them, since the call at the Littles' house had taken a lot out of both of them.

Finally satisfied that he had a copy that was clean enough to actually send, Johnny pulled the paper from the typewriter and set it on the desk. He and Roy planned to look at it once more in the morning, and then send it out before leaving for home. Johnny set the paper on the desk, and put the paper-clip dispenser on it to weight it down. He leaned back in the desk chair, folded his hands behind his neck, and stretched his legs under the desk.

There was a tap at the open door.

"John?"

"Oh, hey, Cap. C'mon in—I mean, it's your office, anyhow."

Cap came in, and closed the door, which he rarely did.

"What's going on today? I mean, I know you guys had a rough call this morning, but … it just seems like maybe there's a little more to it than that," Cap said.

Johnny shook his head, a wry smile on his face. "Man, you don't miss a thing, do ya. Yeah—that call was rough. No two ways about it. But the thing is, Cap, the guy's wife kinda got me thinkin' about some stuff. Some stuff I'd been thinkin' about already. And then Roy got me thinkin' even more. So yeah, I guess I've kinda been thinkin' a lot today."

Cap frowned. "Everything okay at home? I mean, I heard your news about Mike not going back to active duty—that could kind of throw a wrench in the works at home, I'd imagine."

"Nah—he's actually okay with it. Actually, stuff at home is great. Really great. And that's kinda what I'm thinkin' about. And to be honest, Cap—I guess I'm still kinda just thinking. But everything's good—honest. It's good thinking, not brooding." He frowned. "At least, mostly not brooding. I guess somethin' Roy said kinda kicked me out of the brooding. I'm trying to think about what I can do, instead of what I can't do."

Cap frowned slightly. "You kind of lost me there, John."

"Uh … I guess I kind of don't really wanna say anything else about it right now, to be honest. But everything's good—really. Sorry if I've been weird today. But like I said, I'm just thinking."

"All right—you're allowed. You've just been so quiet all day that I was worried, what with the news about Mike and then your tough run this morning."

"Sorry to worry you. But everything's good. And thanks for checking," Johnny said.

"All right," Cap said. "Lights out in five."

"Actually," Johnny said, "do you mind if I take a few more minutes? I'll come in real quiet—I promise—I just want to write a couple things down."

"Be my guest," said Cap. "You'd just be tossing and turning, keeping everyone else awake, if you don't get whatever this is out of your system. Just do be quiet when you come in, okay?"

"Oh, I will. Thanks, Cap."

"G'night."

Johnny got out a sheet of paper, and started writing.

"_Things I _can_ do._"

He wrote a list of seven or eight items, some with single words, and some with longer sentences. He read his list over carefully, and then, satisfied, he folded the paper into quarters. He turned off the lights in the office, and headed to the locker room. He put the folded paper in the pocket of the civilian shirt hanging in his locker, and got ready for bed. As he'd promised Captain Stanley, he crept quietly into the dorms, not making a sound. He got into his bunk, and was asleep in two minutes.

**TBC**


	16. A Sense of Permanence

A/N: Time for a sappy love story.

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**Chapter 16: A Sense of Permanence**

Johnny and Roy read their letter over one last time and put it in the mail, right next to Captain Stanley's letter. Johnny exited the station, whistling and swinging his keys on his finger. Chet Kelly was just ahead of Johnny, and was about to get into his van.

"Hey, Chet—wait up a sec!"

"Sure, Gage—what's up?"

"Well, I kinda have a favor to ask. Only I'm not sure if I'm gonna need it or not, and if I am, when."

Chet rolled his eyes. "Gimme a hint, here, Gage."

"Well, it's like this. I kinda wanna take Mike out to that campground again—you know, the one we all went to right before he transferred out of 51s."

"Oh, you mean the trip where you guys hooked up," Chet said, nodding. "Why didn'tcha just say so?"

"All right, all right," Johnny said, blushing heavily. "Yeah, that one. But the thing is—he's still not in any kind of shape to sleep on the ground in the tent. So what I was wondering was, if I could borrow—"

"The van? Sure. We can trade vehicles for a couple days any time. Just let me know."

"Great, Chet. Thanks a million. I don't even know if we're gonna go; I still have to see."

"Okay—why wouldn't you go, though?" Chet asked.

"Well—I guess … uh, it would kind of be for a particular purpose, and I still have to see if … uh, that purpose is going to work out. Cause otherwise I still wouldn't really drag him out to the woods yet. Him still being on crutches, and all. Can I let you know on our next shift?"

"Sure thing—but I gotta say, you're back to the whole mysterious thing. I know I'm not gettin' anything else outta you though. So just let me know next shift."

"Thanks, man. Whatcha got cookin' for your days off? You seem pretty up, if you don't mind my saying."

Chet shot Johnny a huge grin. "I thought you'd never ask. I met this girl at a party a couple weeks ago—man, she's somethin' else. We're going out tonight—it's our fourth date. The first couple times were all double dates, or groups, or stuff like that. But tonight? Just me an' Lisa. Oh, and here's the weird thing—the party I met her at? Mike's Cap from 93s was there."

"No kidding?" Johnny said. "Len's a great guy. He really watched out for me and Mikey after the accident. We've been hanging out a fair amount lately, actually. But why was it weird that he was at that party?"

"Uh, cause it was a total hippie happening, man. How many hippie firemen do you know?

Johnny held up two fingers. "Two. You, and Len."

Chet laughed. "Fair enough. Anyhow—I just thought that was interesting. It took us a minute to figure out where we knew each other from. But it was from crossing paths at the hospital when Stoker was in."

"Speaking of whom," Johnny said. "I better get home. I'll let you know next shift about the van, all right?"

"Okay—and I hope you end up needing it. Say hi to Mike, will ya?"

"Will do."

Johnny climbed into the Rover and set off for home. Several times during the hour-plus drive, he patted his shirt pocket, where last night he had placed a carefully crafted list, and smiled. Just before rounding the corner to their street, Johnny pulled into a parking lot and stopped. He took the paper out of his pocket, and ran down the list he'd made, and folded it back up and returned it to his pocket, secure that he remembered all the items on the list. He continued home, and pulled the Rover into the driveway.

"Hey, Mikey!" he called, as he entered the foyer and kicked his shoes off.

"In here," Mike called from the living room.

Johnny rounded the corner, and found Mike half-reclined on the couch, leg propped on pillows, reading a book. Johnny dragged the coffee table away from the couch, and leaned down to kiss Mike.

"Mmm, hi," Mike said.

"Hi, yourself. You doin' okay? I haven't seen you elevate your leg this early in the day for a long time."

Mike sighed. "Yeah, well, I know it's only ten o'clock, but I already overdid it. I crutched around the block after breakfast, and I kind of concentrated on bearing a little more weight than usual, like Carol said to try at my last PT appointment. I think it's actually just the muscles, but it feels better if I keep it up, so there it is. Up."

"You need anything?"

"I set up the coffee maker, but I didn't want to turn it on till you got home. Would you mind turning it on?"

"Sure. Be right back." Johnny dashed out to the kitchen, and turned on the coffee maker. He pulled his list out of his pocket one last time, and read it to himself, ticking down the items on the list with his finger as he did so. He was surprised to find his heart pounding in his chest. He took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly to steady himself. He folded up the list, put it back in his pocket, and returned to the living room.

Mike raised his eyebrows. "You okay? You look like you're about to have a root canal." He turned on the couch, and grabbed his pants leg to help swing his bad leg to the floor, so he was sitting on the couch normally.

"Uh … I, uh …" Johnny half-knelt, half-crouched in front of Mike, with his hands on Mike's knees. "I kinda wanted to tell you some things. And, and, and ask you some things," Johnny said.

Mike paled. "Uh-oh."

Johnny waved his hands in front of him. "No no no, nothing bad. Just good. Geez, I'm blowin' it already," he muttered to himself.

Mike reached out and took his hand. "What is it? You said it's good, so I won't freak out—I promise."

Johnny blew out another breath. "Okay. So, here's the thing. I've been thinkin' about some stuff lately, and then that bad run yesterday really drove it home, I guess. The whole thing about how we can't get married. 'Cause we can't."

"No, we can't," Mike agreed.

"And you know how I hate it when someone says there's somethin' I can't do. It's a lie, a white man's lie, that if you want something badly enough, and you try hard enough, you can make it happen. It just plain isn't true. And anyone who ain't a white man knows it," Johnny said.

"I'm a white man, and I know it too," Mike said wryly. "Trust me, babe, I know it."

"I didn't say you _don't_ know it if you _are_ a white man, I just meant if you're _not_ a white man, you automatically—aw, I'm doin' it again." Johnny rubbed a hand down his face, and took another deep breath. "Okay. I'm starting over. So here's the thing. I don't like to think about what I _can't_ do. And I was starting to get hung up on the stuff I _can't_ do. But Roy reminded me yesterday that I could think about what I _can_ do. So here's what I _can_ do."

Johnny cleared his throat. "Number one. I can love you like crazy, every single day, for the rest of our lives. Number two. I can let you love me right back, and never, ever push you away—only pull you closer. Number three. I can remember, every day, that I'm a better person when I'm with you than I ever was before I was with you. Number four. Uh …"

Johnny's eyes searched the corners of the room, and didn't find what they were looking for. Instead, they settled on Mike's eyes, which were misty, but also crinkled at the edges.

"You can look at your list, if you want," Mike said, smiling and pointing at the piece of paper sticking up out of Johnny's pocket. "But whatever you do, don't stop."

Johnny pulled the paper out of his pocket and glanced at it, without letting go of Mike's hand.

"Um, oh yeah. Number four. I can thank you every day for putting up with this crazy idiot. Number five. I can tell you every single day not to change, because I love you exactly the way you are. Number six." Johnny put his paper down, and took Mike's other hand in his own. "I can promise you, with all my heart, that you're the only one for me, forever and ever. I can say that to you out loud, with just you and me there, or I can do it in front of other people if you want. Number seven. I can put a ring on your finger, and let you put one on mine, to seal that promise, and not give a damn what anyone else thinks about that. And number eight. If you think number seven is too crazy, I can live without that part."

Johnny paused briefly, while Mike sat there with his mouth open. "And the thing I want to ask you is, can you do all those things with me?"

Mike could hardly breathe. "Holy shit, babe." He picked up one of Johnny's hands, and kissed the knuckles. "Wow. Yeah. Yeah, I can do all those things too. You bet I can." He leaned forward, careful not to dump himself off the couch, and pulled Johnny in closer. Mike kissed Johnny, long and gently. "Wow," he said again, once he'd caught his breath for real. "How 'bout if you come up here?"

Johnny joined Mike on the couch, and they kissed again. Mike then arranged his body so he could pull Johnny down with him without jarring his own sore leg.

Johnny grinned down at Mike. "I'm pretty sure I just proposed, uh … something, to you, and I'm pretty sure you just said yes."

"Uh huh," Mike said. "That's how I read it, too. I'm not sure what you call it, but it all sounds pretty darned good to me."

"Good," Johnny said. "That's good. Let's do it all soon. Like, really soon."

"I'm guessing you have something in mind," Mike said, "you being the man of a thousand plans."

"Course I do," Johnny said. "Here's what I'm thinkin'. Not this weekend, but next weekend, when I've got Friday through Monday off, we go up to our campsite again after you get off work on Friday. And on Saturday morning, we go down to the swimming hole, and up to the rock at the top of the waterfall, if you're up to it—it's not a steep climb, remember—or we leave ourselves down at the shore if you're not up to a climb. And we say and seal our promises, right there. We can do it with just the two of us, or if you want, I dunno, witnesses, or somethin', we can do that."

Mike thought about that part of the proposal. "I think private would be good." He rearranged their legs on the couch a bit, and continued. "Yeah. I kinda think that part's just between the two of us. Unless you were thinking something different, but I don't guess you were."

Johnny shook his head. "All I need for a witness is you, and the trees and the sky and all the animals who might care to be hangin' around."

"Good," Mike said. "That sounds good. But one thing—I'm not sure I'm ready for crawling in and out of tents, and sleeping on the ground. Maybe we could ask Chet to borrow his van, or something. Kind of for old times' sake, too."

"Already done," Johnny said. "He doesn't know why—and of course that's driving him crazy. But he's used to that after all these years."

"You're one step ahead of me on this, I see," Mike said, smiling. "But one more thing—and this is where we might not be of one mind," Mike said slowly.

"Go ahead, babe—what is it?"

"Well," Mike said, "here's the thing. We can't exactly suddenly just have these rings on our fingers, and not explain it to our friends. So I'm thinking, maybe that Sunday, we could have people over, and kind of … explain. All at once, you know. Not make a big deal out of it, or anything, but just … explain it."

Johnny nodded slowly. "Okay. I guess, though, it's also gonna be a little weird to say to everyone why we want them to come over all at once like that."

Mike shook his head. "Nuh-uh. You know what that Saturday's gonna be? What date it is?"

Johnny frowned. "Nope—I don't think so. Lemme think … oh," he said flatly. "Yeah. I think I do. Three months, right?"

Mike nodded. "Yeah. Three months to the day since I got hit. So let's take that date, and turn it on its ass, and make it into something good. That day, almost three months ago, everything changed. And then, that same day of the month, ten days from now, we'll change things some more. And then, the next day, we'll have people over to thank them for getting us through those first changes, and tell them about everything else that changed."

"All right," Johnny said. "Yeah. I think that works out pretty good. We oughta make sure Roy's gonna be able to make it. And Cap'n Stanley."

"And how about Len?" Mike added. "Can't do it without him, I don't think."

"Yeah, him too, for sure." Johnny hesitated for a moment. "What about, uh, your folks?"

Mike closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the arm of the couch. "Johnny, I don't even know if they'll come. And if they do, I don't know what the hell they'll make of the whole thing with the rings," he sighed. "But I'll call 'em, and tell them what we're gonna be doing, and see if they'll come. I'm not gonna count on it, though, and I think we shouldn't plan it around whether they say they can make it."

"Okay. That's fair. It's probably not fair to blindside them," Johnny said, "but I don't really know, not having any family myself."

"No, you're right. Sometimes it's better to just do things, and apologize later if it's freaky, but not with my ultra-traditional turn-of-the century parents. It's not _totally_ unreasonable to think of them as Victorian, you know—my father was actually born during Victoria's reign. Barely."

Johnny laughed, and squirmed on outside edge of the couch. "Don't make me laugh—I'll fall off, here."

"So then come closer."

He did.

~!~!~!~

_Ten days later, Saturday morning_

On a surprisingly warm mid-January morning, as the mist was clearing from around the watering hole, a group of deer stopped for a drink. They froze, suddenly, as the wind carried a scent of Humans. They looked around, to see where the threat was coming from.

The oldest doe saw the Humans first. There were two Men sitting on the rock above the water. They weren't moving very much. The doe thought it must be a good spot, for animals that could climb a bit, since it was right in the sun. One of the Humans smelled lame—the doe couldn't tell which one, since they weren't moving from the spot where they were sitting. Their spot was a good location for seeing predators, as well. Perhaps that was why the two Humans smelled so content—if you were lame, you would need to be able to see predators early.

Two content-smelling Humans, one of whom was lame, didn't seem like a threat to the doe, so she continued drinking. The younger deer followed her lead—after all, she wouldn't have gotten so old if she couldn't smell a threat.

One of the fawns watched the Humans warily. She noticed that one of them was making chattering Human sounds, but didn't understood what they meant. Then the sounds stopped, and the Human who had been chattering put something shiny on the forehoof of the other Human. The second Human chattered for a while, and then put something shiny on the forehoof of the first Human. Then the two Humans nuzzled each other in the way a doe would nuzzle her fawn, except for longer. The fawn became bored of watching the Humans, and ate some reeds from the shore of the watering hole.

The oldest doe lifted her head again, to reassess the Humans. Even though the Humans were looking right at the deer, they still didn't seem threatening—they were just sitting there, and smelled even happier than before. The doe thought it was odd that two Males would be so near each other without fighting, especially since they smelled like they were interested in mating. But there were no Females nearby, so perhaps the Males wouldn't bother with a fight, even though one was lame and an easy target.

The deer carried on eating and drinking near the watering hole for several hours, until the sun was high overhead. The oldest doe thought it was odd for Humans to sit in the same place for so long, so she kept a careful eye and nose on them. They didn't do anything, for the whole rest of the day, except sit close to each other on the top of the rock, and make their chattering sounds. They nuzzled each other from time to time, and ate some Human food they must have brought with them.

Finally, when the sun got lower and the air became cooler, one of the Humans stood up. This must be the one who was not lame. He helped the other Human stand up—yes, that Human was lame in a hind leg. The oldest doe pricked her ears up in alarm as she saw the not-lame Human hand two shiny sticks to the lame Human—shiny sticks meant it was time to run. She flashed her white tail in the air, and the other deer followed her, leaping and disappearing into the woods.

~!~!~!~

"I'm fine—it's just like stairs, see? Though it's probably a good idea to spot me," Mike said, carefully making his way down from their rock at the top of the waterfall. They reached the bottom without incident, and walked around the swimming hole to the trail back to the campsite.

Johnny stopped Mike at the beginning of the trail, and they turned to look back at their rock from below.

"That was perfect," Johnny said softly. "It was just perfect."

"Yeah," Mike said. "Yeah, it was." He cast his eyes up the trail, but nobody else was there. He kissed Johnny soundly, balancing expertly on his crutches.

They made their way back to the campsite, and Mike parked himself in the folding chaise-lounge they'd brought from the deck at their house. "Time to put this leg up, for sure," he said.

"How 'bout if you rest up while I make us some dinner," Johnny said.

"Good idea—I'm beat. Sorry if I conk out on you," Mike said, yawning. "But better now than later, huh?"

"That's for sure. Want a blanket?"

"Yeah—it's not that cold, unless you're a leg with a metal rod in it, I guess. Weird."

Johnny grabbed a blanket from the van, along with a couple of pillows and two aspirin. He brought all of the above to Mike, and tucked him and his elevated leg into a bundle on the lounge. Mike's eyes were drooping, so Johnny kissed him and let him drift off.

Johnny blew on the embers of the fire, and added some kindling. By the time the kindling had caught, and Johnny had put a few logs on the fire, gentle snoring sounds were coming from the chair. Johnny grinned fondly at the sleeper, reminded that Mike's snoring was one of the factors that had contributed to throwing them together over a year ago, at this very campsite. He took his time getting dinner together, wanting to let Mike rest up as long as he needed. Mike hadn't complained one bit, but Johnny could tell that getting down from their rock, and then back up the easy trail to the campsite, had taken a lot out of him.

Over an hour later, the sun had set completely, and Mike started to stir. Johnny put the steaks on the grill, next to the foil-wrapped potatoes that had been there for some time, and returned to his chair next to Mike's. He brushed Mike's fine, light-brown hair off his forehead, and Mike rewarded him by slowly blinking his blue eyes open. He took a deep breath in, savoring the pine forest smell, the clean wood-fire smell, so different from the toxic chemical odors of a modern structure fire, and the aroma of the cooking meat.

"Hey," Johnny said, reaching out a hand.

"Hi," Mike said, taking the hand that was seeking his. It happened to be Johnny's left, and Mike drew it towards him, and kissed the newly adorned ring finger.

"Think maybe you could eat a steak in a few minutes?"

"I think maybe it'd be hard to stop me." Mike looked around. "Wow, do we still have this place all to ourselves?"

"I walked around the loop a little while ago to fill up the water jugs. There's some polite, quiet people all the way at the other side of the loop by the showers, but that's it."

"Good."

Johnny got up and flipped the steaks, and got out plates and silverware. A few minutes later, when the food was ready, he served it up, and they dug in. They ate in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder.

"It was a perfect day, Mikey," Johnny said, as they finished up. "Absolutely perfect." Johnny took Mike's plate from him, and washed the plates and silverware up in the pot of water he'd left on the grill to warm. He dried the dishes, and put them back in the crate they'd come from, and set the wash water aside to put the fire out with later.

"It still _is_ a perfect day," Mike said. "There's still plenty of it left."

"Yeah," Johnny said, sitting back on his heels at Mike's side. "About that. I'm kinda feelin' like heading for an early lights out."

"Now would be pretty good," Mike suggested. "And it won't even take me gettin' soaked and frozen in a rainstorm to get me in the sack with you this time, either."

"Didn't think it would," Johnny said, sending Mike his crooked grin.

Johnny doused the fire with the dish-washing water, and stirred the embers. He held his hand over the fire pit. Still feeling heat, he poured another jug of water over the embers and stirred some more. Satisfied with his results, he put down the stick, brushed off his hands, and went over to Mike's chair. He helped him up, and handed him his crutches. He collected the blanket and the pillows, and together, the two of them made their way to the same van where, sixteen months ago, they'd first discovered that they were two halves of a whole.

**TBC**

A/N: Next up: a little more schmaltz, at a party in the boys' yard, and then we get back to business.


	17. Declarations

A/N: Another pleasant, happy chapter, low on the angst scale.

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**Chapter 17: Declarations**

"I think that's it," Mike said, as he surveyed the campsite one more time.

"Okay. Let's go," Johnny said. He spotted Mike as he climbed into the passenger's seat of the van, and then took his crutches and stowed them in the back before hopping nimbly up into the driver's seat.

They both looked out the windshield at their campsite, one more time.

Mike cleared his throat. "Lotta good times here, Gage," he said. "All in this one spot."

"We just keep addin' to 'em, don't we," Johnny said.

"I don't think we can top yesterday, though."

"Nope. That wins grand prize," Johnny said as he started the engine, and drove around the loop to the park's entrance.

"We'll be back, I bet."

"You bet. Lots of times. It's kind of our spot, ain't it."

"Yep. But for now—back to the world," Mike said.

They drove for a little while, talking of this and that, and then stopped after an hour or so to let Mike stretch his leg. Mike walked around the parking lot they stopped in a couple times, doing his best to put some weight on his leg, and then got back in the van.

"You good?" Johnny asked.

"Yeah. You know, I'm pretty sure I'm able to put a fair bit more weight on that leg now than I was last week. I bet it helps that even though I have a desk job, I'm not just sitting around all day. It's different from just sitting at home."

Neither one of them said much of anything for the next ten minutes or so. They were both thinking about the same thing, though.

"So, this afternoon," Mike said, finally.

"Yeah, this afternoon. I'm glad we decided just to order a pile of sandwiches and a bunch of salads, instead of trying to grill. I have a feeling we're gonna have our hands full," Johnny said.

"Yup. How many people are there gonna be, again?"

"'Bout thirty, with wives and kids and all. Good thing it doesn't look like rain."

"You know, I still can't believe my parents said they'd come. Especially after I told them what we were going to do yesterday."

"They're your parents. They love you."

Mike looked out the window for a minute. "That part was pretty hard to believe, sometimes. I mean, we would talk, every so often, but it was always about pretty much anything but my life. Every time I brought up anything about work, or about you, they'd just shut me down. And one time, a couple weeks before I got hit, I said something about you, and my father just changed the subject, and I yelled at him, and we hung up on each other. I wonder, if I hadn't nearly been killed, if we'd still be speaking to each other now."

"Maybe not," Johnny said. "Sometimes, I think you don't really understand what you've got till something happens where you almost lose it."

"Hmm." Mike looked out the window again.

Johnny pulled off the road and put the flashers on, and Mike looked at him questioningly.

Johnny reached over and took Mike's hand. "I understood, though, before all that," he said. "I always, for every second, understood how lucky I was, how happy I was with you. Never think I didn't understand."

"I know, babe. I know you did. I did too."

Johnny pulled carefully back on to the road, and resumed the drive back to their house.

"I think … I think that whole thing just made things … I dunno. Crystallize. That's a good word. But don't ever think that yesterday wouldn't have happened without you almost getting killed. And that bad run a couple weeks ago? That just showed me what I needed to do, got me thinking about how I needed to do it. It was all gonna happen anyhow. 'Cause I love you like mad, and pretty much from the get-go I could tell it was gonna be forever. Okay?"

"I know. And, you know I felt the same way. I was just more … anxious about it than you. I guess that's why you ended up being the, uh, proposer, and I ended up being the answerer."

"Who said what first doesn't matter," Johnny said. "We both feel the same way. That's what matters."

"I suppose so."

Johnny stole a glance at Mike, and then returned his eyes to the road. "You know what's weird? You seem calmer now than before your accident. Like, things that woulda bugged you a lot six months ago just roll right off you now. So it's like even though this incredibly awful thing happened to you, because a stupid person did a stupid thing, you don't think on the dark side like you used to."

Mike nodded. "It's true. I've been thinking a lot about how weird that is. And here's what I came up with. When you spend half your life worrying about what _could_ happen, and then something even worse than what you worried about _does_ happen, you can go two ways with it. You can go numb—be completely paralyzed—or you can realize that even though this awful thing happened, and nothing's ever gonna be the same, the important things are still there.

"Sure, I can't be an engineer any more, but I'm gonna learn something else that I'll be good at. Sure, I'm probably never going to walk completely normally and without pain, but damn it, I'm gonna walk without these crutches someday. Soon. And us—sure, this horrible thing happened, but you got me through it. When it first happened and I just wanted to die so I wouldn't hurt so bad, I knew I had to make it through so I could be with you, so I didn't give up. It would've been so easy to give up—but you made me not want to. And then, every single time I opened my eyes and freaked out because I was in agony and I couldn't breathe, you were there, and I knew it was going to be okay. I knew _we_ were gonna be okay."

"We're more than okay," Johnny said. "_Way_ more."

"Yep." He held his hand out, and inspected the wide gold band on his finger. "And we're completely crazy."

"Always," Johnny said. "So it's a good thing we're havin' everyone over this afternoon, to explain just how crazy we really are."

"I'm pretty amazed how almost everyone's gonna be there," Mike said.

"Everyone," Johnny said, "with one glaring exception."

"Yeah," Mike said. "I don't know, Johnny. I don't know if Marco will ever be able to really accept it."

"We're fine, on shift," Johnny said. "Completely fine. I know he's got my back, and he knows I've got his. He doesn't even mind if I talk about you, in general terms. But I know he doesn't agree with the whole thing, and just has to not think about it. I kinda think he made a new story in his head—that we're just housemates—and he hangs on to that. But I didn't figure he'd come to this thing."

"No. I didn't think so either. But it was the right thing to do, to ask him."

"Yeah."

They drove for a while longer, and then exited the highway.

"Here's a question for you, Johnny. Dixie, and Dr. Brackett. Are they a thing?"

Johnny laughed. "Question of the decade, Mikey. Here's my take. I think they have an on-again, off-again thing. I was pretty sure, when I first started the whole paramedic gig, that it was more 'on' than 'off.' But I think it's more 'off' than 'on' these days. So my final answer is no, they're not a thing."

"Huh. Why do you suppose they're more 'off' than 'on?'" Mike asked.

"That's an easy one. He's a strong personality. But she's a stronger one. My bet is that he gets overwhelmed by her, and she gets pissed if he tries to tone her down. And I think they're both kind of the confirmed-single type. But maybe it's just that the right person didn't come along. I don't know." Johnny shook his head. "Man, listen to me. Gossiping like an old lady at the back fence. Anyhow—I'm glad Dix is coming. She's really sharp, and she helped me out of some dark spots in the last couple months. Did I ever tell you, she had us pegged from the first time she saw us together?"

"Seriously?"

"Yep. That time that Roy had the flat tire, and you were at Rampart for PT for your shoulder. She never said anything, of course, but she had it all figured out."

"Geez. Huh—you know what's funny?"

"What?"

"Women, and captains. They're who figured us out," Mike said. "Joanne, Dixie, Captain Stanley, and Len. In that order."

"The keen observers. A mom who used to be a teacher, a nurse, and two fire department captains—no wonder they busted us!" Johnny said.

They drove a little while more, stopping and starting in the suburban traffic.

"This is gonna be some party, this afternoon," Mike said. "I'm glad we figured out a good way to explain to people what we did this weekend. I think people will get it—that we're like married people, and not like boyfriends. There's just no good word for it, though. 'Partner' just sounds so businesslike, and plus it makes me think of you and Roy. 'Boyfriend' just sounds so juvenile and casual." He shook his head.

"Speaking of old ladies gossiping at the back fence, I'm dying to see if Chet's gonna bring this girl he's been seeing. He said he wasn't sure. But I hope he does. Turns out she's an acquaintance of Len's," Johnny said.

"No shit? You think it's serious?" Mike asked.

"I'm kinda thinking it's going that way," Johnny said.

"Good," Mike said. "There needs to be someone other than just us gettin' it on in this van."

Johnny laughed. "Oh, man. Do _not_ say that to Chet."

"I won't—I'll say it to you instead. But maybe I'll suggest that he take her camping some time."

It was nearing 11:00 when Johnny pulled the van into their driveway.

"How 'bout this," Johnny said, as he helped Mike down from the passenger's seat. "Shower, nap, lunch, and then we'll still have plenty of time to go pick up the food and a couple cases of beers and sodas."

"Dandy," Mike said. "You wanna go first in the shower? I gotta walk around the block or something; get this leg moving a little."

"Tell ya what," Johnny said. "You go around the block, and I'll unload the van, and then we'll somehow end up needing the shower at the exact same time, and won't that be a shame."

"Terrible," Mike said, grinning. "You're on."

~!~!~!~

Two hours later, the alarm went off in the bedroom.

"Auugh," Mike said as he sat up. "I _knew_ I shouldn't have had a nap. I think I'm more tired now than I was before."

"C'mon—let's make some coffee, then you'll be fine."

Mike sat at the bar in the kitchen, nursing his coffee, and Johnny tossed lunch supplies onto the counter.

"So I figure I'll go out to the deli and pick everything up after we're done here, and you can put your leg up for a while, and then we can—" Johnny looked at Mike and stopped his rambling. "You all right?"

Mike executed the tiniest of nods. "I guess I've got the jitters," he said into his coffee cup.

Johnny sat down next to him. "Well, me too. It still feels pretty weird to me that everyone knows something we never planned on 'em knowing. But as long as they know it, we might as well tell 'em we really mean it."

"Yep."

They had a quick lunch, cleaned up, and went out together to pick up the trays of food they'd ordered from their favorite deli, which also happened to be the place where Mike could get the unusual varieties of beers he favored.

The usual clerk, Robert, was on duty. His cat, as usual, was sitting on a shelf behind the counter, watching everyone suspiciously. Robert's earrings of the day were tiny gold peace signs.

Mike pushed the shopping cart of beer, soda, and crutches up to the register, as Johnny carried various trays out to the truck.

"You guys must be havin' quite a bash," he said. "What's the occasion?"

"Well," Mike replied, as he put things on the counter for Robert to ring up, "when you practically get killed, and all your friends get you back on your feet again, you gotta have a party, right?"

"I suppose you do, at that," Robert said. "But that ain't all, is it?" he said, gesturing to Mike's hand.

"Nope," Mike said.

"Right on," Robert said. "Good for you guys. Congrats."

"Thanks." He settled up the bill. "Now, if we can just get the entire L.A. County Fire Department to think like you, we'll be just fine."

Robert let out a low whistle. "You guys are firemen? Damn. Bet you gotta keep a lotta locks on your closet at work. Me? I just run a store." He shook his head. "Damn."

"Yep."

"You need a hand gettin' stuff in your truck?"

"Thanks, but Johnny's out there. I can lean on the cart while I push it out."

"Okay. Well, have a good party."

"We will."

~!~!~!~

The doorbell rang at three o'clock sharp, and Mike nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Here we go," he said, getting off the couch, as Johnny went to open the door.

"Hey, Roy! Hey, Joanne! Hey, kids! C'mon in!"

Mike sighed with relief that his perfectly punctual parents weren't the first to arrive.

"Congrats, guys," Joanne said, hugging them both. "And let's see 'em."

"Huh?" Johnny said. "See what?"

Joanne rolled her eyes, and Mike elbowed Johnny in the side as he held his left hand out for inspection.

"Oh!" Johnny said, and held his out as well.

"Perfect," she declared. "Good choice."

"He picked 'em," Johnny said, pointing at Mike.

"Smart man," Roy said to Mike. "You never know what Junior here would've come up with."

"Nowwaitasecond!" Johnny said.

"He's just kidding, babe," Mike said, stifling a laugh, and not entirely sure he was telling the complete truth.

The bell rang again, and Mike, who was standing closest to the door, automatically opened it.

It was his parents.

They stood there in the doorway, all looking at each other, for a few seconds.

"Mom, Dad—glad you could make it. Come on in," Mike said.

"Hi, Mrs. Stoker, Mr. Stoker. Thanks for coming."

Mrs. Stoker looked Mike up and down, from head to toe. "Michael, you're looking so much better!"

"Son," Mr. Stoker said. "It's good to see you looking well."

"He's gettin' around pretty good too," Johnny said. "So, can I get you a drink? We've got red wine, white wine, Mike's kinds of beers, and regular American ones. And juice and soda," he added hastily, realizing he didn't have a clue whether they might be teetotalers.

"Oh, a glass of wine would be perfect," said Mrs. Stoker. "Let me help you—you're going to have your hands full pretty soon. Chuck, what will you have?"

"I believe I'll see what John meant by 'Mike's kind of beers,' if you don't mind," Mr. Stoker said.

"Coming right up!" Johnny said. "Hope you like your beers dark, 'cause that's what it's gonna be." He followed Janet Stoker into the kitchen, and noticed her glancing over her shoulder on her way.

"He looks so much _better_," she said. "I can't get over it."

"He's pretty much back to his old self," Johnny said, handing Mrs. Stoker a glass of white wine. "The leg's gonna take a while yet, but he's working hard."

"I'm sure he is. He always does," she sighed. "I'm sure you know by now that he likes things to be just right. He's probably not going to give himself a break until his leg is as good as new." She sipped her wine, and looked steadily at Johnny, watching as he poured two dark beers into glasses. "Will it be, ever?" she asked, not taking her eyes off him.

Johnny put the glasses down on the counter, and shook his head minutely. "Probably not. He'll walk without the crutches, but it's probably never going to be a hundred percent."

She sighed. "I see."

"He's okay with it," Johnny said. "Honest. He went through a rough patch, when he first really got that he'd probably always have a limp when he's tired, and maybe some pain. But now? He's better every day. He works himself pretty hard, but he knows when to be satisfied. And he's not as hard on himself as he used to be. When he did his shoulder, he'd get so mad at himself when things weren't moving along the way he wanted, even though they went real fast. But not this time. He takes it as it comes, even though sometimes he needs a reminder of how much progress he's made."

"And the job?"

"He misses it, but he's starting to get interested in some of the things he could do at HQ. They've got him pushing papers for now—nothing too awful; I won a bet on that one, actually. But he found out Thursday that a guy from the Arson Investigation division is retiring in a few months, so he's going to apply for whatever opens up in that department after they promote people and move them around and such."

Mrs. Stoker sighed again, but with a completely different tone than her previous sigh held. "That's a relief—I could tell, as soon as I saw him after his accident, that he wasn't going to be able to go back. And to be honest, I thought that might be a disaster for him. Especially since …" she trailed off.

"Especially since I'd still be doing it, one out of every three days?" Johnny said, looking her right in the eye.

She nodded.

"It's all right," Johnny said. "It really is. He'd been thinking already, for a while, about what he'd do if he couldn't do active duty any more. Actually, when we, uh …" he trailed off, realizing he was about to go someplace he wasn't sure if he should.

Mrs. Stoker sensed Johnny's discomfort, but didn't know what it was about. She put her hand on Johnny's arm. "It's all right. I may be a white-haired old lady, and I may not understand my youngest boy's life, but I know he loves you, and I know you love him, so no need to beat around the bush."

Johnny nodded. "Fair enough. When we first, uh, got together, it was right after he dislocated his shoulder. We were talking then about the 'what-ifs,' even though he knew he'd come back from that one just fine. And he was already talking about the investigation team then. So it's not something he's just latched onto in desperation. He was already thinking, and now he's really interested in it. He's always got a couple books from the library at HQ. Stuff that's way over my head, at this point. He's real smart, you know. And the investigation people—they have to have an eye for detail. Just like Mike does."

"Yes, he certainly does!" Mrs. Stoker laughed. "He used to drive me crazy when he was little, making sure everything in the house was just so, and that his clothes were neat, et cetera et cetera. My friends were all jealous, because their boys were so naughty and messy. But actually, I was j—" she stopped abruptly.

"No need to beat around the bush on my account, either," Johnny said.

"All right." She paused. "I was jealous of _them_, because I could already tell he was different from other boys. Even though he did all the same things as they did—Little League, Boy Scouts—he did everything _differently_. Not like other boys. And I thought I knew where that was going, and I turned out to be right." She looked up at Johnny. "And I know, now, that it's not the end of the world. And I'm sorry that Chuck and I wasted so many years thinking that way. And I'm appalled that it took what it took to get me to see that."

"But you see it now," Johnny said.

"I do. And I see he's really happy, and I'm grateful to you for that."

"I'm happy too," Johnny said. "And I'm grateful to him for that. You shoulda seen me a couple years ago. I acted like a total idiot about ninety percent of the time, drove everyone crazy. I don't know what he saw in me then, but he's settled me down real well. Not even really on purpose. I guess … I guess I settled myself down, being with him."

"Like you said before, John—he has an eye for detail. He knows where to look for the truth."

Johnny and Mrs. Stoker stood there for another few seconds.

"Come on," Mrs. Stoker said. "Let's go take those good looking men some strange looking beers."

Johnny carried the two glasses to the living room, where he saw Chuck Stoker and his son standing in the doorway to the living room, engaged in conversation. From what Johnny had heard from Mike over the last year, they hadn't had a face-to-face conversation of any consequence for years. Johnny handed Mr. Stoker one glass, and set Mike's glass down on a coaster on the side table nearest to where he was leaning on his crutches, and was about to discreetly slip away to talk to Roy when Mike gestured for him to come nearer. Mrs. Stoker stood next to her husband.

"I was just telling Dad about how I've been studying up on the investigation stuff," Mike said.

"Oh, boy, he's not kidding," Johnny said to Mr. Stoker. "And some of the stuff he's learning about—well, I had to get a high-school chemistry book out of the library just to get the first paragraph of one of the books. And then I gave up."

"Don't pretend you're a dummy, babe," Mike said. "Remember that time you were trying to explain that whole pneumothorax thing to me, and I didn't even know how breathing works? And I've been breathing every day, since I was an infant!"

"Speaking of breathing," Mr. Stoker said, "is the fellow who kept you alive on the way to the hospital coming today? Because I'd like to shake his hand."

"Who, Henry? Yeah. He's coming, all right. But Dad?" Mike said. "You gotta understand. No matter what Henry did, Johnny's the one who got me through the rest of it. Sure, there were doctors and such, and they all did great work, apparently. But without Johnny, none of that would've mattered. I just wouldn't have cared. And if you're in as bad shape as I was, and you don't care, you don't make it. You just don't."

Mr. Stoker looked at Johnny for a few long, long seconds. He handed his beer to his wife, took a step towards Johnny, and slowly extended his right hand.

Johnny took that hand, and found himself being pulled forwards, embraced, and clapped on the back. He returned the embrace, nearly falling over with the shock of it.

Chuck Stoker squeezed Johnny hard, and then abruptly let go.

"Thank you," he said. "Excuse me." He turned swiftly to the sliding glass door that led out to the deck, and strode outside.

Mrs. Stoker kissed Mike on the cheek, and then Johnny, and then went out to the deck to join her husband of nearly fifty years.

Johnny and Mike looked at each other.

"Holy crap," said Mike.

Before they had a chance to process what had just happened, the doorbell rang again.

Johnny reluctantly turned away from Mike to answer the door.

"Cap! Mrs. Stanley! Come on in! No girls today?"

"No, they both have a rehearsal for their school play this afternoon. Tricia's one of the leads, and Amy's a townsperson or something like that. The problem of being the younger sister," Cap said, shaking his head.

"Mike, you're looking great!" said Jane Stanley. "Really, really great."

"Thanks, Mrs. Stanley. I'm feeling pretty good, too. Actually, I'm feeling _really_ good."

"I bet you are. Congratulations to you both," she said, looking at Mike and Johnny. "Hank told me what you two were doing yesterday, and I think that's just terrific."

"Thank you," Mike said. And he looked up, as the doorbell rang again.

Over the next ten minutes, the door was constantly opening and closing, as the rest of the A-shift crews from Stations 93 and 51 appeared. Mrs. Daniels came from across the street. Kelly Brackett arrived, looking awkward and out of place, as he never did at Rampart. Johnny quickly handed him off to Roy and Joanne, just in time to open the door for Dixie McCall.

Dixie couldn't restrain herself from hugging both Johnny and Mike, even though she knew Mike wasn't really that type. "I'm so glad for you both," she said. She took Johnny's hand and looked at his ring. "So proud of you, Johnny. I knew you'd find a way."

"Thanks, Dix. You helped us out a lot, you know," Johnny said.

The doorbell rang again.

"Who's left?" Mike said.

"Who's always last to everything except a shift?" Johnny asked, as he opened the door.

"Howdy, boys," said Len Sterling, as he stepped inside. "And congratulations to you both."

"Thanks, Len," Mike said.

"Yeah, thanks. And thanks for watching out for us while we were gettin' back on our feet," said Johnny.

"You're welcome," Len said simply. "Mike, it's great to see you looking so well. I know I just saw you a week or so ago, but trust me—every time, you're looking a little taller, a little stronger."

"Won't be long before these things will be in the garage," Mike said, tapping his crutches. His ring made a 'tink' on one of the aluminum poles.

"It's true, you know," Dixie said. "Remember the last time I saw you?"

Mike frowned. "Oh yeah," he said. "After that PT session, about two weeks ago, when Johnny made me stop in the staff lounge for coffee before we went home, so I could make it across the parking lot. Man." He shook his head. "That seems like a long time ago. Today I've been up and about most of the day, and it's not that bad. Huh."

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Len said, looking back and forth between Dixie and Johnny and Mike.

"Oooh—sorry!" Johnny said. "I always forget that just because I know people, doesn't mean they know each other. Len Sterling, Dixie McCall. Len, Dix is the best ER head nurse you'll ever meet. And Dix—Len is one of my two role models for how to be a good captain someday."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss McCall," Len said. "I was Mike's captain up at 93s. And is Rampart where you run the show?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it quite that way," Dixie said, chuckling, "especially since the doctor that runs the ER is right over there."

"Don't listen to her, Len—we all know who's in charge of the ER, and it's _not_ the guy with the sideburns," Johnny said. He paused, and looked around for a minute.

"Ya know what, Mikey? I think everyone's here who's gonna be here. I'm gonna go talk to Roy for a sec, then I guess we oughta do our thing."

"All right," Mike said, looking a little pale.

Johnny turned to go find Roy, but then caught a glimpse of Mike's pale shade.

"Go on," Mike said, waving him off. "I promise I won't puke or anything."

"Okay," Johnny said, glancing behind him once more as he headed to the deck in search of Roy.

"Touch of the jitters, Mike?" Len asked.

"Uh, I guess so. It's stupid, really—we're just telling people what they already know."

"It's not stupid," Dixie said. "Come on—you look like you've been hovering on those crutches for way too long." She led Mike to his own dining room, and pulled out a chair for him. Len, in turn, pulled a chair out for Dixie. "Oh, thank you," she said.

Len pulled a third chair around to the same side of the table.

"Way I see it, is you two eloped," he said, "and now you're just havin' a party to let us help you celebrate it."

Mike switched from pale to pink in an instant. "Len, we didn't get _married_," he said. "We can't."

"Maybe not in the eyes of the law. But in the eyes of yourselves, that's _exactly_ what you did yesterday. And in the eyes of your friends, too. I'd be willing to wager that anyone who's here today understands that. So thank you, Mike, for having us all over so we can show you we understand."

"We still have to do our speeches," Mike said, switching back to pale. "Why did I let him talk me into this?"

"Because it's a good idea?" Dixie said.

"Yeah, I guess so," Mike said. "And actually, if I think with more than one brain cell at a time, I'm remembering that _I_ talked _him_ into this part of it. Sheesh. Okay, Stoker. You can do it," he said to himself.

"You sure can," Len said. "Just pretend we're all in our underwear. Hell, you've seen all your fellow firemen in their shorts, so it shouldn't be _too_ hard to imagine. But maybe you should keep the ladies out of it," Len said, nodding to Dixie. "And maybe we just won't make that whole underwear suggestion to Gage," he concluded.

Mike laughed. "All right, all right. You're right—I can do it. It's just a couple sentences anyhow, and we decided it would be okay to write it down."

Johnny entered the house from the deck, through the sliding door in the living room.

"All right, Len, Dix—time to join the crowd. Everyone's down in the yard—me an' Mike are just gonna stand on the deck and say a few words."

"Johnny, may I snap a few shots?" Dixie asked. "For posterity?"

Mike and Johnny looked at each other.

"Sure, why not?" Johnny said. "Just don't let Chet get a hold of any embarrassing ones."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Dixie said, standing up.

"After you, Miss McCall," Len said, opening the slider.

"Please, Captain—it's Dixie."

"All right, then, as long as you call me Len."

The slider closed again, and Mike and Johnny were alone in their house.

"You good?" Johnny asked.

"Yeah. I feel like a probie on the way to my first structure fire, but I managed that, so I think I can manage this. How 'bout you?"

"I'm good, as long as I have my paper with my little speech in my pocket." He picked up Mike's crutches, and helped him to his feet. "Let's do it, babe."

Mike took a deep breath. "Yeah. Here we go."

They went through the living room, and Johnny opened the slider.

Mike stepped through, and Johnny followed, closing the door behind him.

The thirty or so people in the yard got quiet for a second as the two came through, and then began clapping and cheering.

"Way to go, guys!" Chet Kelly yelled from the middle of the yard.

"All right, all right, now settle down, everyone!" Johnny ordered. "We've got a couple things we wanna say to everyone, and then you can all go nuts, all right?"

The crowd laughed, but then quieted.

"Mike gets to go first," Johnny said.

Mike stepped up to the railing of the deck, and looked down at the yard full of people. He saw everyone—nearly everyone—he'd worked with regularly for the last seven years. His captains, the firemen whose lives he'd protected as the supplier of water, the paramedics who'd saved many people's lives, including his own. His friend Serena, who for many years had been the one person who really understood what he went through at work. His parents, who he never in a million years would have imagined seeing at an event like this. His mother's eyes were gleaming suspiciously, and his father was actually smiling, ever so slightly.

Mike handed his crutches to Johnny, who leaned them up against the house, and stood close to Mike to support him if he needed it. But Mike was standing straight and tall, leaning ever so slightly on the deck railing with one hand, and holding an index card with the other.

"Three months ago yesterday, I almost became a statistic. Vehicle-related injuries kill far more firefighters than fires do, and I was a hair's breadth from adding to that figure. I wasn't just lucky—there was a lot more to it than that. Everyone here helped, in different ways, to get me from where I was three months ago to where I am today. Henry Yang and Francisco Velasquez: you were right there, and because of that, I'm still here. Dr. Brackett: you, as medical director of the county's EMS program, recognized the need for needle decompressions in the field, and made it happen in the paramedic protocols. If you hadn't played the part you did in that, I probably wouldn't be here."

He turned to Johnny. "This part's not in what we rehearsed. But Johnny, if I didn't know you were gonna be there waiting for me, I probably wouldn't be here." He set the index card down on the railing in front of him, and took Johnny's hand. "I think I need this more than I need that," he whispered to Johnny, squeezing his hand.

He looked back out to the crowd, and found his parents. "Mom, Dad—I was awfully glad to see you at the hospital, and I'm really glad you're here today. And everyone else here—each and every one of you helped me and Johnny get through hell. I saw all of you at one hospital or another, I'm sure of that, even if I don't remember it all. But more than that—I had people at the hospital to take care of me, make sure I got what I needed, help me get better. But what you all did, was take care of the one person who means the most to me. And if I hadn't known you were doing that, it would've been a lot harder for me to get any better. So thank you all, so much, for all that you did for us. I wouldn't be here, standing on my own two feet, talking to all of you, without all you did. Thanks for both of our lives."

People murmured and clapped again, and Mike squeezed Johnny's hand, as Johnny turned towards the house and surreptitiously flicked a tear out of his eye. He sniffed, the noise covered by the fading applause.

Once the group was quiet again, Johnny cleared his throat. "I've got a couple of things to add to what Mike just said."

He took his turn to survey the group in front of him.

"You all know that Mike and I are together. But the funny thing is, we never _told_ any of you that. Not a single one of you. We couldn't. It's not the kind of world we live in. It's just not.

"Some of you figured out what we were to each other on your own—the keen observers, and you know who you are. Most of you found out three months ago, whether you wanted to know or not. Everything changed that day—everything. A lot of things are changing back again. Look at Mike—he's standing here, and the crutches are leaning up against the house there." One of the crutches obligingly clattered to the deck at that very second, drawing titters from the crowd. "And it looks like things are _still_ changing," Johnny said, pulling a stronger laugh from the group in front of him.

"But seriously. One of the big things that changed was that the most important thing in our lives wasn't a secret any more, and it won't ever be again." Johnny looked out at the group in front of him. "And since it's not, we want to tell you how it is." He cleared his throat. "It's like this. We love each other. We're going to spend the rest of our lives together. In fifty years, we're gonna be cranky old men tellin' the neighborhood kids to get off the grass, yellin' at the teenagers for flyin' their rocket cars too fast, and whatnot." The crowd tittered again.

"But here's the other thing. Yesterday, three months to the day after everything changed, Mike and I went out to a place that's special to us, and promised each other, in our own words, that we're gonna love each other and be together for the rest of our lives. I put a ring on his finger to seal that promise, and he put one on mine. We don't know what to call what we did—there's no word for it. There's no word for it because it doesn't fit the rules. But we did it, and we're real happy about it. And that's the other important thing we wanted to say in front of all of you today. And we're really …" Johnny stopped for a second, and cleared his throat before he continued. "We're really, really glad that you all came here today to hear us tell you all this."

Johnny looked at Mike. "Did I get it all?"

"You got it all, babe. Every word."

Johnny looked back out at the silent crowd. "So I guess that's it."

Hank Stanley broke the silence, clapping slowly, and in seconds, the rest of the crowd followed his lead.

"Wooo-hoo!" shouted a voice that could only be Chet Kelly's.

The applause continued. Someone—they couldn't see who—was well prepared, and clinked a glass with a metal utensil, causing some laughter in the crowd.

Mike turned to Johnny. "Do we give 'em a show?"

Johnny's crooked grin gave him the answer he needed, but Johnny said the words anyhow. "I think we do."

Mike let go of the railing, knowing Johnny would support him, and they kissed each other, long and slow.

When they finally parted, both of their eyes were shiny.

"I love you like crazy, forever," Johnny said to Mike.

"And I love you, today, tomorrow, and always. And this is really unromantic, and totally not in the script, but I have to sit down right now."

"Okay. You got the rail?"

"Yeah."

Johnny scooted a deck chair behind Mike, and he sat down gratefully. Johnny waved to everyone in the yard. "Come on up, everyone! We got a house full of food, and a fridge full of beer, and we're counting on you all to help us out with that."

Jenny DeSoto was the first to bound up the steps of the deck. "You guys got married," she said happily. At ten and a half, she was at that captivating stage where fairy tales still loomed slightly larger than the rules of society, but where she understood both. She reached into the pockets of her jeans, and tossed a small handful of rice onto Johnny and Mike, as Roy planted his forehead into his palm.

"Good for you two," Jane Stanley said firmly. "Good for you. And I wish you long and happy lives together."

Joanne DeSoto didn't actually say anything—she just hugged and kissed each one of them, wiping the tears from her eyes after she did so.

Mike started to stand up when his parents approached. His mother tried to get him to stay seated, but Mike refused. Nobody said anything for a moment, but then Chuck Stoker cracked the silence. "Be happy, son. And you too, John."

"We will, Dad," Mike said.

Mike's mother just hugged and kissed them both.

Over the next few hours, each person there had a chance to talk to Johnny and Mike. Some people said things as simple as "Congratulations," but other people had different words to share. And Johnny and Mike got to watch all their friends, at their home, and know that everything was all right.

Throughout the afternoon, people mingled and chatted. Mike and Johnny couldn't help noticing that Chet's new girlfriend, Lisa, looked at him in a particular way, even when she probably didn't think he was looking. They also noticed that Len and Dixie seemed to have a lot to talk about.

Mike nudged Johnny, towards the end of the party, and gestured discreetly to the corner of the living room. Dixie and Len had been sitting in that corner for the last half hour, and Mike and Johnny looked over just in time to see Dixie finish writing something on a slip of paper and pass it to Len.

"Well, how 'bout that," Johnny said quietly, grinning back at Mike. "That's very, very interesting."

~!~!~!~

A few hours later, everyone had gone home. The DeSotos had been the last to leave, insisting on cleaning up nearly the entire mess of the party. Chris, nearly a teenager, had pretended to be bored by the proceedings, but was actually thrilled to be able to hear the best of the best stories from nearly a dozen firemen, many of whom had tales that were completely new to him. Jenny had flitted about like a fairy, but eventually settled in to her self-appointed job of making sure that Mike was "comfortable." But by seven, even the DeSotos had gone, and Johnny and Mike were on their own.

Mike was stretched out on the couch in the living room, with his leg up on a pile of pillows that Jenny had presented him with, scrounged from the rest of the furniture in the room. Johnny squeezed in next to him, teetering on the edge of the couch.

They rested there for a minute or two, not saying anything.

"This is really uncomfortable," Johnny admitted, sitting up again.

Mike laughed. "Yep. And Jenny gave me waaaay to many pillows. I feel like I'm doing the splits. Can you pull about three quarters of those out? Then I _might_ just be able to move again."

Johnny placed the pillows on the floor in the corner, and Mike sat up straight on the couch, feet on the floor. Johnny sat next to him, and took his hand. Mike leaned into him, putting his head on Johnny's shoulder, and Johnny snaked his arm around Mike.

"I think we actually pulled it off," Johnny said.

"I think you're right," Mike said.

**TBC**


	18. Vent Enter Search

**Chapter 18: Vent-Enter-Search**

_VENT: Monday morning, 0745, Station 51._

Johnny sat at the day room table, finishing a cup of coffee from the pot that C-shift had made before being called out on a run just after the wake-up tones. His body was tilted back in the chair, legs stretched out under the table. He stared up at the ceiling, picking his head up from the back of the chair from time to time to take a sip of his coffee.

Mrs. Little was right.

Roy was right.

Everything felt different. Even though he didn't have a piece of paper that made things "legal," things still felt more settled. He felt a calmness that he didn't recall ever having felt before. Rightness, completion, security. He wasn't in a hurry to do anything, go anywhere. He didn't care if it was going to be a busy shift, or the kind of shift where by lights out, everyone was bored out of their gourds, but couldn't get to sleep because they were sure the tones would jolt them awake the second their eyelids stayed together for more than a few seconds.

He sat up and traced a grain line in the wooden tabletop with a fingernail, as he thought about the past weekend and everything that had changed, but had somehow, at the same time, remained the same. He swigged down the last of the cup of C-shift's stale coffee, emptied the last quarter-cup of the stale brew into his mug, and set a new pot to percolate on the stove.

He listened to the coffee pot burbling through its cycle. He sipped his coffee, waiting to see who would show up next. Waiting for what they might have to say to him.

The patting sound of leather boot soles on the cement floor of the apparatus bay caught his attention. From the pace of the footsteps, it would be Roy or Marco. Marco, Johnny decided, as the footsteps hesitated momentarily at the doorway.

"Mornin', Marco," Johnny said, turning around.

Marco nodded to him. "Good morning."

"Coffee oughta be ready."

Marco poured himself a cup, stirred sugar into the coffee, and sat down at the table. He stared into his cup, trying not to look at what he knew his eyes would be drawn to eventually. After a few seconds of not looking, he couldn't help it. His eyes flicked upwards, catching the glint of gold on Johnny's left hand. His eyes caught Johnny's for a fraction of a second, and then ducked back down to the comfort of the blackness in his cup.

Johnny silently stood up, and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. The sofa beckoned to him from across the room—_look at me, look how comfortable it is over here!_—but he ignored its siren call, knowing that the couch cushions were, in this case, perilous rocks, and sat back down at the table with his friend. Friend? Yes, still, at some level. Trusted colleague? That was a given. He held onto that thought while they sat there in silence.

They both knew that words would disturb the delicate atmosphere between them, mixing the hot, toxic air at the ceiling with the relatively cool, breathable air near the floor—near the foundation of the friendship they'd had for nearly seven years. They'd both felt the door in front of them, at the edge of the room they were in, but couldn't tell, through their heavily insulated gloves, what the temperature was on the other side.

Perhaps the door was hot. At best, opening the hot door would disrupt the thermal layering in their room, stirring the cooler, cleaner air by the floor into the miasma of heat and poison at the ceiling. At worst, opening it would send gouts of flame through the doorway, incinerating whoever was closest.

Or, it could be cool in the next room. Perhaps the fire hadn't reached that area yet. But opening that door could let a stream of fresh oxygen into the room, unleashing a furious backdraft.

The door would stay closed, for the time being. Johnny and Marco stayed low, breathing the air near the floor, not knowing how long it would last. The room sorely needed ventilation—needed someone to cut a hole in the roof, let the heat, smoke, and flames out.

Voices from the empty apparatus bay jolted both men out of their thoughts. Cut a hole in the roof. They both breathed a little easier.

"Roll call in two!" Cap's voice put water on the flames. They could both look up now.

The shift would start soon, distracting both men from their discomfort. Work was comfortable—they knew what to do, what to say. They knew they could trust the other person, that the foundation they walked on was solid. Working together was easy. But just sitting together, not talking about their weekends—that was hard.

~!~!~!~

_ENTER: Two weeks later._

"Gage?"

"Yeah, Cap?" Johnny shouted from under the squad.

"Phone for you. It's Mike."

"Be right there." Johnny rolled the creeper out from under the vehicle and wiped his oily hands on a rag. He debated asking whether he could pick the phone up in Cap's office, but headed to the day room instead, just like Roy would if Joanne called just before dinner.

"Hey, what's up?"

"_I got it! I got the job!_"

"Seriously? They told you already? That's terrific!"

"_Yeah—I'm pretty thrilled. I start the day after tomorrow. I mean, I won't really be doing anything yet, but they're gonna have me shadow various guys for a couple days each, to get a feel for the big picture. I won't be allowed to go onto active scenes until I'm off the crutches, but my new boss said that doesn't matter for a while—that there's so many other areas to learn about that the scene investigation stuff can wait a while._"

"Wow, that's just great, Mike. Mind if I tell the guys?" Johnny bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, unable to restrain himself from movement of some kind.

"_Sure, tell anyone you want! I mean, it's gonna be a long learning process, but damn, I'm gonna do it!_"

"You sure are, aren't you. Man, that's great!"

"_Yeah. I'm pretty amazed—I mean, there were several guys interviewing, and none of them are even bumming around on crutches. So I—_"

Johnny waited for a second. "You still there?"

Mike's voice was flat when it came back on the line. "_Uh, yeah. I, uh … just thought of something, though._"

"Whatsa matter? You were so excited a second ago! What did you just think of?" The toe-bouncing stopped.

"_Well, they probably _had_ to give me the job. I mean, a couple of the other guys who were in the waiting room before the interview yesterday were still on active duty, so why would they take one of _those_ guys out of the field when I'm stuck here at HQ, and they have to pay me anyhow? Shit. The boss probably got told he had to hire the gimpy guy. Damn it._"

"Whoa whoa whoa, now wait a second. That doesn't make any sense at all. Think about it—if they wanted to warehouse you, they'd stick you in HR, or filing, or, or—I don't even know what kinds of things they warehouse people in. But this job? It's a position of real responsibility. Where no matter who they take, they're gonna hafta train them up. And you told me about the questions they asked you at the interview yesterday—those weren't bullshit questions. Right?"

"_Right … but …_"

"And you nailed them all, right?"

"_Yeah, but—_"

"But _what?_ A bunch of people interviewed for a really interesting and important job. You knew yesterday that you nailed the interview. And you got the job, even though they know they're going to have to wait for you to be physically ready for some of it. You were the best person for the job, so they hired you. Period."

Silence.

"Mike? C'mon, now; don't do this."

"_Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I got the job. _Despite_ my … my temporary limitations. Not _because_ of them._"

"That's exactly right. You got the job you wanted, even though a bunch of other guys wanted it too, because you were the best one. That's terrific, and I'm real proud of you, and real happy for you."

"_Thanks. And you know what?_"

"What?"

"_I guess I'm proud of me and happy for me too. And, uh, thanks for talking sense back into me. I don't know quite what happened just then. I haven't gotten derailed like that for a while._"

"Aw, you know I can always get your train back on the tracks, right?"

Mike laughed. "_Yeah, you always can. Hey—I gotta go. I'm getting a ride home from Mrs. Daniels, and she's picking me up soon. I'll see you, uh, shit—when will I see you? I guess not till you pick me up at HQ tomorrow._"

"Yeah. Too damn long. But I'll see ya then, okay?"

"_Okay. Bye._"

"Bye."

Johnny put the phone down, and stared at the wall in front of him for a moment before turning around.

"What's the news, Gage?" Cap asked.

Everyone had managed to assemble in the ready room while Johnny was on the phone with Mike, so five pairs of eyes looked at him expectantly.

Johnny debated whether to be annoyed that the entire company was obviously listening to his end of the conversation. But he had chosen to take the call in here, instead of in the dorms, where the house rule was people on the phone were given privacy. So he chose to ignore the not-quite-eavesdropping, and, putting all thoughts of annoyance out of his head, beamed back at his shiftmates. "Well, we didn't want to say anything about it till we knew one way or another. But Mike applied for a job that just opened up in the Arson/Fire Investigation Unit, and he interviewed yesterday, and he just found out he got it!"

"Hey, that's terrific!" said Cap. "I've heard those jobs are really hard to get."

"He'll be a super investigator, I bet," said Marco. "He was always so careful and painstaking with everything around here."

Ed Jackson, who had been the station's engineer since Mike transferred over a year ago, chimed in. "I heard some of the chemistry stuff you have to learn is really hard."

"Well, he's the definitely the brains of our operation," Johnny said. "No doubt about that."

"Huh," said Chet. "Does that make you the brawn? Now _that's_ a scary thought—but a lot less scary than you being the brains." He ducked his head from the blow he pretended was coming.

"Ha, ha," Johnny said. "But anyhow—I'm real happy for him. It's what he wanted to do, and he's gonna get to do it."

"That's great," said Roy. "It really suits him. And like Marco said, he'll be great at it."

"Yeah, he will. And he'll probably even still have time to help me study for the engineer's exam."

"So you're definitely doing it, huh?" Chet asked. "I just can't see you manning the pumps, Gage."

"Me neither," Johnny said. "But, well, you gotta think about the future, right? And unless things change, that's what's next. And by the way, you're welcome to join in the studying, 'cause I know perfectly well you're planning on taking the exam again."

"Yeah," Chet said, making a face. "Don't remind me. Maybe I can make it to the middle of the list this time, instead of the bottom."

"Come over Saturday afternoon," Johnny said. "Seriously. We're gonna go over all the formulas, and Mike's a whiz with that stuff."

"That's what tripped me up first time I took the test," Ed admitted. "So Kelly, if you've got a chance to study with an expert, you better go for it."

"All right," Chet said, nodding. "Yeah. Okay, Gage. Thanks. I'll be there."

"Good call, Chet," Marco said. "If anyone can get your head around that stuff, it'll be Stoker."

"He sure can," Johnny said, nodding slightly to Marco.

They were trying.

~!~!~!~

_SEARCH: The next shift: Thursday afternoon_

"Mail call, boys!" Cap strode into the day room with a pile of envelopes. "And for once it's not just for me."

The men looked up as Cap started calling names.

"Gage, DeSoto, Kelly—identical ones for you. Probably testing times for the Engineer's practicals. Lopez, some junk mail for you; enjoy. And one for me, with a handwritten address, from the office of the Ops chief." He opened the letter and scanned the page. His face lit up in a grin. "All right, boys! Listen to this!"

"_Dear Captain Stanley:_

"_This letter is in response to your recent correspondence regarding the possibility of promotion to a captaincy without experience as an engineer. The department has recently been reviewing its policies and outcomes regarding promotion to the position of Captain, and has determined that in certain cases, experience as an engineer may be bypassed. In light of steadily declining rates of interest in engineering positions, the department has decided to begin a pilot program of including experienced firefighters with technical training in other areas to apply for promotion to Captain. The department also … _blah blah blah, okay, I'm gonna cut to the chase here. Skipping to the interesting parts now."

Cap cleared his throat and continued. _"We have reviewed Mr. Gage's and Mr. DeSoto's files, and have determined that they are acceptable candidates for this pilot program. Requirements for consideration for promotion include:_

"_One: scores within the top twenty-five percent on both the engineering written and practical exams; these scores may be no more than eighteen months old. Two: at least eight years of experience in the department, including at least three years of experience in a specialty area. Three: a letter of recommendation from each Captain regularly supervising the firefighter in the last five years_—well, that one's easy, since it's just me."

He looked back down at the letter. "Now, where was I? Ah, here we go. _Four: paramedics applying for this program must also include a letter of recommendation from two supervising physicians. Physicians intending to write such letters will be directed to comment on technical ability as well as initiative, responsiveness to orders, and other non-medical characteristics. Five: passing the oral and written components of the Captain/Fire Officer test._

"_Should Mr. DeSoto or Mr. Gage be interested in this opportunity, they must submit a letter of intent within two weeks. A special round of the Captain/Fire Officer test will be offered in approximately eight weeks. Candidates will be notified by mail of their time slots for testing._

"_Thank you for_ … blah blah blah, et cetera, nothing else interesting here.

"_Sincerely, James Edison, Deputy Chief, Operations Division, L.A. County FD._"

Cap looked up from the letter. "How 'bout that, guys? Pretty much exactly what we were hoping for, huh?" He beamed at Johnny and Roy who were, frankly, looking a bit green around the gills.

"Yeah," Roy said. "Wow. That's … uh, wow."

"That's a lot of studying, is what," Johnny added. "You gonna do it, Roy?"

Roy blinked a few times. "Uh, probably. I'll talk to Jo about it first. But yeah. I think I will."

"All right! Me too. Except I'll talk to Mike, instead of Joanne. I bet they're both all for it, though. But …" Johnny frowned.

"But what, Johnny?" Roy asked.

"Number four—the letters from medical control."

"What about it?" Cap asked.

"Well, Dr. Early'll prob'ly write me a decent letter. But who else?"

Roy raised his eyebrows. "Uh, the name 'Brackett' comes to mind fairly immediately. And he's the director of the entire EMS program, so his letter should count double."

Johnny's scowl deepened. "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

"Fess up, Gage—why wouldn't he write you a good letter? I mean, I hear he's a fire-breathing dragon, but does he have something against you, specifically? I mean, you've been working for him for like seven years, right?" Chet said.

"He thinks highly of you," Roy said quietly. "I don't know why you'd think anything else."

Johnny didn't reply.

"Talk to him," Roy said. "Tell him what you're thinking of. I don't know what's happening in that head of yours, but honestly, I don't see him writing you anything other than a glowing recommendation."

"All right," Johnny said, finally. "Okay. I'll make an appointment to see him on my way to pick up Mike tomorrow after work."

"Good plan, John," Cap said. "And I'll get started on my letters for you guys."

Roy nodded. "Thanks, Cap."

"Looks like in a couple of months, it might be just you and me, Cap," Marco said, "from our original bunch."

"And maybe me," Chet said, "if I can't manage to get any higher than I did the first time around. Seventy-fourth. Sheesh."

"Oh, no," Cap said suddenly.

Five sets of eyes looked up in alarm.

"What, Cap? What is it?" Marco asked.

"They'll send us a probie," Cap said.

**TBC**

**A/N: **Vent-enter-search is an aggressive "risk a lot to save a lot" tactic sometimes employed to rapidly put firefighters in areas of a structure in which people are most likely to be trapped. They do an end run around the fire, breaking windows (the "vent") to enter survivable but high-life-risk rooms (particularly bedrooms, particularly at night), and aggressively search for victims.


	19. The Other Side of the Fence

**Chapter 19: The Other Side of the Fence**

_The next day: Rampart_

"Come on back to my office, Johnny. I have to admit—I'm curious about your request for an off-duty meeting," Brackett said, as he held his office door open for Johnny. "I'm assuming it has something to do with Mike, so I reviewed his chart this morning. Have a seat," he said, indicating a chair in front of the desk. "Did you have some questions about his progress?"

"Uh, Doc, it doesn't actually have anything to do with Mike. He's doing great—he's down to just using the cane a lot of the time now, and—you probably didn't hear this yet—he got the job he really wanted at HQ."

"That's all good to hear—very good. But, now I'm left with a real mystery. What can I do for you, Johnny?"

Johnny squirmed in his chair. "So, uh, I've been working in the paramedic program for a while, now," he said.

Brackett nodded. "Since before there even _was_ a program. Seven years, if I have my dates right."

"Yeah, Doc, that's about right. But the thing is, you can't be a paramedic without being a rescue guy and a fireman—at least, not in L.A. And I guess you've probably noticed over the last seven years that I've shown up as a customer at the Rampart Inn a few times."

"Yes, you have," Brackett agreed. "More than I like to see—a lot more. Some of it was just bad luck, but I have to think that some of the times you ended up in here might've had something to do with some brashness in your personality. Maybe some self-sacrificing tendencies, too. I've been pleased not to see you at the wrong end of any medicine being practiced here recently, though."

"Yeah. Not for a couple years," Johnny said. "A couple close calls that got my attention, for sure, but nothing big. I guess you could say I've learned to be more careful. Watch out for myself a little better."

"That's good," Brackett said. He didn't ask any more questions—he simply waited for Johnny to get to what he needed to get to.

"I really love being a paramedic."

"I know you do. And you're one of the best. You and Roy together—I can't even count how many lives you've saved. How many hundreds of people wouldn't have made it through the doors down the hall if you hadn't been there when they needed you."

"Yeah," Johnny said. "When they needed me." He looked away, staring at a nautical painting on the wall as he continued. "And that's the thing, Doc. I need to start thinking about how I can still do good in the world, but not be quite as much on the front lines any more. Because I've got someone who needs me. And with him almost buyin' it a couple months ago—well, I don't want him to have to go through what I did then, if that makes any sense."

"It does," Brackett said. "It makes perfect sense. I can completely understand why you would want to resign from the department, after something like that happening."

Johnny cocked his head and frowned. "Resign from the—nah, Doc. You've got it all wrong. I couldn't do that—what the heck else would I do with myself? I just mean, it might be time for me to not be the infantry any more. What I'm saying is, I'm gonna go for a promotion. Which would mean I couldn't work as a medic any more—except for maybe OT shifts, or something."

"A promotion? Well, why not? Engineer is the next step, right?" Brackett said, wondering what any of this had to do with him. "But frankly, from what I understand of that job, it might not be such a good match for your personality."

"It'd be a disaster," Johnny said. "But that's not what I'm lookin' at. Here," he said, pulling out a photocopy of the letter Cap had read aloud the previous day. "Here's what I'm thinkin' of doing."

He sat back and watched while Brackett read the letter carefully. Brackett's eyebrows performed acrobatics that told Johnny exactly where Brackett was in his perusal of the letter.

Brackett put the letter down on his desk, and looked back across at Johnny. "Why, exactly, do you doubt that I would support you in this?"

"I, uh … I guess because of all the mistakes."

"Mistakes?" More eyebrow-batics.

"You know. There's always stuff that's going wrong in the field—things that could've gone better, problems that the protocols don't cover. Those times when medical control back at the base station, plus eyes and hands in the field, still can't make it happen. All those things you pull us medics into the hospital to go over in that meeting once every couple months." Johnny flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his trousers.

"Ah."

"Yeah, 'ah.' See what I mean?" Johnny said, making eye contact with Brackett for the first time since they got to the kernel of the discussion. "At a lot of those meetings, you make me go over and over stuff I did. Sometimes it's stuff that worked—like that time with the guy with the open abdominal wound, and you talked me through finding the artery and clamping it off. Then there's times when it didn't work—like that teenager with the hood ornament through his trachea."

Brackett sat back in his chair, and looked intently at Johnny. "Did you think, for all those cases, that I was having you go over the scenario because I was displeased with how it went?"

"Uh, maybe—for the ones that didn't work out."

Brackett shook his head. "Nope. Nobody's happy when patients don't make it. But you know as well as I do, Johnny, that some patients can't be saved. Period."

"So why, Doc? Why are so many of my cases called up in those meetings?"

Brackett sighed. "Because, Johnny, you're the one who comes up with things to try. You're the one who says things like, 'Doc, I've got a guy bleeding out from an open abdominal wound—help me find the artery so we can save him.' You're the one who says things like 'His larynx is crushed, and he's impaled through the neck with the hood ornament, and I can't ventilate him past all that metal. What if we pull it out, and drop an ET tube in the hole?' We're at a fabulous phase in this field, Johnny—it's old enough that there are people out there, like you and Roy, who really know what you're doing, but young enough that courage and innovation are still allowed on the front lines—we haven't regulated everything to death quite yet. You're willing to put your neck on the line, every day, to save people's lives. And you convince me, on a regular basis, to put my metaphorical neck—my medical license—on the line for the same reason. In five years, I guarantee you there won't be that freedom. So for now, yeah—you're the one who gets picked on—because everyone in that room has things to learn from you. Everyone."

"Oh." Johnny cleared his throat. "I, uh, thought it was something else. Like, that things went wrong, and people should learn from my mistakes."

"Everyone should learn from everyone's mistakes. But the reason I call on you so often isn't because of the _mistakes_. It's because of the _learning_. There are always mistakes. It's a fact of life. And in our fields, mistakes can—and do—cost lives. But I can only think of one mistake you haven't learned from."

"Uh-oh. What's that, Doc?"

"The mistake of thinking that you're not good enough. Because you are—you're _better_ than good enough. And it's beyond me how, after all these years—all these years of being just about the best at everything I see you do, that you still haven't learned that you're good enough."

Johnny struggled to come up with a response to Brackett's admonishment, but decided he couldn't think of anything that was good enough.

"And that, Johnny, is the one thing—the _only_ thing—that I think would hold you back from being just about the best Captain I can imagine. This ridiculous idea that somehow you're just not good enough to do the job."

"So here," Brackett continued, "is my proposal to you. I'm going to hold off on writing your letter. What I want you to do, is, think about what I just said. Think about why you never think you're good enough. Come back, when you've figured it out, and we'll talk about it. And I hope to God you figure it out, because frankly, between you and me and these four walls, your department needs some captains just like you."

Johnny stared back at Brackett. "I already know why," he said quietly.

Brackett blinked back at him, eyebrows arching almost absurdly. "Sorry?"

"I already know exactly why I never feel like I'm good enough."

"All right … do you think you can explain it? No, that's not what I meant—what I really mean is, are you comfortable discussing it with me?"

"I guess. I mean, it's no secret I did pretty bad in school. That sure didn't help. But the thing is, I never really _belonged_ anywhere before. Not until this job, anyhow. I know, when I think about it, that I'm good at my job. But when you're always between two worlds, your whole life, one way or another, and you never quite seem to fit in to either of the worlds you're between—you _don't_ feel like you're good enough. Maybe you're doing all right from the point of view of the one side of the fence, but not for the other. Whatever side of whatever fence I'm on at any given moment, the perspective from the other side is that I'm not doing it right. Ever. Even if I _know_ I am. I mean, hell, I couldn't even make things simple for myself and fall in love with and marry a girl—I had to go and pick the other side of that fence. And believe me, Doc, that was _not_ the plan for John Gage's life. But I'm damned happy with how things turned out—it just wasn't the _easy_ way." He shook his head. "I'm not makin' any sense. But in my head, there's this difference between feeling something, and knowing it. I _know_ I'm good enough. But I don't _feel_ I'm good enough. 'Cause whenever I _know_ I'm good enough, I put my head on the other side of the fence, and suddenly it doesn't look so hot any more."

Brackett nodded slowly. "I see. I certainly don't have the breadth of life experiences that you've had, but I think I see."

"But Doc—you know what else?"

"What else, Johnny?"

"I think the _feeling_ is starting to catch up with the _knowing_. That sounds awfully simple, I guess. But in the last couple years, I think maybe I've … I don't know … grown up a little. A lot. Probably because I'm finally happy. But I can tell you this for sure. I know—_and_ I feel—that I could really be a good captain. Or I'd never even think about applying." He looked up, almost imploringly, at Brackett. "Does any of that make any sense at all?"

Brackett thought carefully before he spoke. "From whatever side of whatever fence I'm on, Johnny, it all seems to make perfect sense. And the other thing I can tell you for sure is that our loss as a hospital will be made up for by the department's—no, the county's—gain with you as a Captain. I'll get in touch with—" he looked at the photocopy on his desk—"Deputy Chief Edison, and find out where to send the letter that I'll write for you."

Johnny nodded slowly. "Thanks, Doc. I really mean it. Not just for the letter—but also for helping me keep my head on straight."

"You can always rely on me for a swift kick in the pants," Brackett said, giving Johnny one of his rare smiles.

~!~!~!~

_Three months later: Station 51's parking lot, 1350._

"You first," Roy said.

"Nuh-uh. _You_ first. I mean, you got the next to top score on the Engineer's exam, so I wanna see how you did on the Captain's exam before I even open mine," Johnny said.

Roy sighed. "All right. Here goes."

He ripped open the envelope, and a grin spread across his face. "Passed. Eighth out of forty, for the special round of testing."

"Well, all right!" Johnny said. "So let's see. You got second out of eighty on the Engineer's test, and I got tenth, so that oughta mean since you got eighth out of forty on this one, I oughta be about … uh …" Johnny screwed up his face and looked up at the corner of the kitchen ceiling. "Aw, hell. I guess it doesn't exactly work that way. Well, let's at least see if I passed."

Johnny tore the flap off his envelope, and stared at the letter, his face devoid of expression, for long enough that Roy was getting concerned.

"Uh, what's it say, Johnny?"

"Must be some kind of mistake," he said. He handed the letter to Roy.

Roy's grin threatened to split his cheeks open. "No way, pal! No mistake there. First out of forty! C'mon, let's go tell Cap!" He rose off the bench, and turned towards the open back door of the station.

Johnny just sat there at the picnic table in the station's back parking lot, shaking his head.

"Gotta be a mistake," he said.

Roy sat back down at the table. He pointed to the top of the letter. "Look: there's your name. John R. Gage—that's you, right?"

Johnny nodded.

"There's your score: ninety six percent. Pretty fantastic, if you ask me. And there's your ranking: one. Just plain one. Nothing after it. Nothing before it. Just a one. Are we agreed on that?"

"I guess …"

"So what's the problem, Junior?"

"Uh …"

"Stand up—attaboy, just like that, Cap'n Gage—and we'll go see Cap."

Roy tugged Johnny along by his elbow until they reached Captain Stanley's office. Roy tapped on the open door.

"C'mon in, gentlemen. So—what's the news? And Gage, you look like you need to sit down, so why don't you just go ahead and do that."

Johnny just stood there, open-mouthed.

Roy maneuvered a chair behind Johnny, and gently pushed down on his shoulders, from behind, until Johnny's knees gave way and he plopped into the chair.

"Well, Cap—I got eighth out of forty. Not too shabby, I don't think," Roy said.

"Roy, that's terrific! You'll probably get moved up in no time—a couple months, at most."

"Yeah," Roy said softly. "I can't believe it. I'm really gonna do it."

"You're gonna do a great job. We can talk, before you move up, about how to get started in your new station, if you want."

"I definitely want," Roy said. "Boy, will I need whatever tips you have."

"And Gage—you're being awfully quiet, there, pal," Cap said. "You can't have done _that_ badly. In fact, I would have thought you'd do really well."

Roy plucked the paper from Johnny's hand, and placed it face up on Cap's desk.

Hank Stanley's jaw dropped open.

"See?" Johnny said to Roy, pointing to Cap. "_See?_ He thinks it's a mistake too!"

"No, I most certainly do _not_," Cap said calmly. "I was pretty sure you'd score in the top ten. But first? That's really amazing. Congratulations, John."

Johnny sat in the wooden chair, shaking his head. "I just don't believe it," he said. "It's—I dunno, Cap. I'm suddenly not sure it's a good idea. I mean, me? A Captain? In _charge_ of people?"

Hank sighed, and turned to a filing cabinet behind him. "I knew this was going to happen. I just knew it. And so, apparently, did your Dr. Brackett. He wrote me a note after he sent your letter—now, where is it? Ah—here we go. He said to tell you this: 'think it, and feel it, because it's true.' I don't know what he means by that, but from the look on your face I guess you do. And I have something to add to what he said. Which is this: both of you—John, Roy—you're going to be terrific captains. If the brass is smart, they'll put you in stations like this one—stations with an engine company and a rescue squad. If they're even smarter, they'll give you experienced engineers, and brand new, green paramedics. I'll miss you both terribly—but it's a good move, for both of you. And I'm proud to have seen you through the last six years."

Johnny was sitting up straighter than before, but he still looked a bit dazed. "Thanks, Cap."

"It's gonna take a while to sink in," Roy said, shaking his head.

"You're ready—both of you. I knew, from the moment I heard you concocting your original letter to Chief Edison a couple months ago, that you were both ready. I knew you'd both pass the exams. And boy, I can't wait to see how things turn out for each of you. Now, though, I bet you've got some phone calls to make."

"Yeah," Roy said. "Boy, Joanne's gonna be thrilled!" He got up from his chair, and headed for the dorm phone.

"Uh-uh, Roy—not so fast," Cap said.

Roy pivoted on one foot. "Huh?"

Cap grinned back at him. "Johnny here is gonna outrank you in a couple weeks, by my estimate. So why don't you have a little practice with that concept, and let him go first."

Roy turned to Johnny. "How 'bout it, Captain Gage? It's all yours."

"Well, then," Johnny said. "Don't mind if I do." He slapped his knees, pushed himself out of his chair, and went to the dorm phone to call Mike.

"_Arson/Fire Investigation, Mike Stoker speaking._"

"Hey, it's me! And you'll never guess what."

"_Hmm, there's been a bit of buzzing around the building about the new Captains' list. Could that have anything to do with it?_"

"It could."

"_Are you by any chance on it?_"

"I am."

"_And are you by any chance near the top._"

"Not exactly," Johnny said, wanting to stretch this moment out as long as possible.

"_Huh. Well, close _enough_ to the top?_"

"I'd say so. Definitely."

"_Help me out, here, Gage,_" Mike said. He knew Johnny was playing a game with him, but he didn't really mind.

"Oh, all right. I'm not _near_ the top. I _am_ the top."

"_The top_?"

"Yep. Numero uno. That's me. Can you even believe it?"

Mike paused. "_Yeah, babe. I can. Can you?_"

"Man, you have me so pegged. I didn't at first, but Roy and Cap talked me into it. But yeah, I think it's starting to sink in."

"_Wow. That's really … wow. You know what I'm gonna do?_"

"What?"

"_The list is posted outside the Ops Chief's office. I'm just gonna go look at it, on my next break—no, right now, actually. I'm gonna stand there, right in front of the bulletin board, and gloat. Silently. Until someone tells me to get the hell out of the way so they can see._"

"Sounds like a good idea. I haven't actually seen the list—me an' Roy just got our letters with our scores and ranks. So let me know who else you see on there, will ya?"

"_Sure. Hey, did Roy do all right?_"

"Course he did. Eighth. Outta forty. So he's in good shape too."

"_Good. Well—I'm gonna go gloat now. I'm really, really proud of you, babe_."

"Thanks. Hey, I gotta let Roy have a turn with the phone. But I'll see you in the morning, all right? I'll call you if I'm gonna be much later than usual."

"_Okay. Love you._"

"Me too."

~!~!~!~

Mike exited the elevator on the second floor, just outside the office suite of the Deputy Chief of Operations, who was the boss of the all the battalion chiefs, who were the bosses of the captains in their battalions. He headed straight for the bulletin board where notices were posted, and was glad to see there was nobody else there.

He immediately found what he was looking for: the ordered list of scores on the recent Captain/Fire Officer exam. Sure enough, there was Johnny. Right at the top of the list.

Mike stood there staring at the list, gloating, just like he said he would. He took a moment to look down the list. Roy was there, not too far below Johnny, and just a bit farther down, he found Craig Brice and Bob Bellingham, the paramedics from 51's B-shift. None of the other names looked familiar.

Mike moved over slightly to make room for two men who also wanted to see the list.

"Unbelievable," the first man said to the second. "Just—unreal."

"I told you," the blond man said. "That's the guy I told you about before. Pretty sick, huh."

"Jesus. It's bad enough they're in the department at all, but a Captain?" The shorter, darker man shook his head. "Damn."

Mike stepped a little more to the side, a cold feeling developing in the pit of his stomach.

"And with him being first on the list, they can't really avoid promoting him, can they," said the blond man.

"Wonder who he knew to get that spot on the list," the darker man said.

"Or who he—"

Mike abruptly spun around, not wanting to hear the rest of what the blond man had to say. He nearly collided with the man.

"Hey, watch it, buddy!" the dark-haired man said.

Mike didn't apologize. He bypassed the elevator, and sat in the stairwell for several minutes, not really intending to climb up to the sixth floor with his cane—just to get away from what he was hearing. He heard a number of people come and go past the fire door of the stairwell, and decided that the men he didn't want to see had probably been amongst them, so he left the stairwell and took the elevator back up to the sixth floor.

He closed his office door, all the way, and sat with his hand on his phone for a good minute before picking it up and dialing.

"_L.A. County Fire Department, Station 51, Captain Stanley speaking._"

"Oh, hi Cap. Could I talk to Johnny again for a minute? And, uh, could you ask him to pick up the dorm phone?"

"_Sure. Hang on_."

Mike heard some rustling and muffled voices. While he was waiting, he realized what a terrible idea it would be to do what he was about to do. Johnny needed to know what Mike had heard, but he didn't need to know it that very instant.

"_Hey, Mike—what's goin' on?_"

"Oh—uh, I just went downstairs to look at the list. You're definitely at the top; no question about it. Your name looks really good up there. But I wanted to tell you—I also saw Bellingham and Brice on there, too. Below Roy, but pretty much in the middle of the pack."

"_Well, all right! Though to be totally honest, I don't think I'd want Brice as my Cap. But he won't be, so I'm not gonna worry about it. I guess the department must know what it's doing. 'Cause we're all in it together, right?_"

Mike sighed inwardly. "Yeah. All for one, one for all. Anyhow—hope I didn't interrupt anything. Just wanted to tell you that I saw the list, and you're the highlight."

"_All right. Thanks. I guess I'll see you in the morning, like we said before._"

"Yep—see you then. Bye."

"_Bye._"

Mike put his phone receiver down gently, and tried to find something to do, to take his mind off the ugliness he'd just heard.

~!~!~!~

_Two weeks later: Station 51._

Hank Stanley had just finished looking over the previous shifts' log reports. He wished for the thousandth time that Hookraider's handwriting were anything other than chicken scratch—the man should've been a doctor. He didn't relish opening the day's mail, but at least it would be legible—whatever it was. He pulled a stack of envelopes from his in-box.

Not being a man who believed in saving the best for last, he opened the most interesting-looking envelope first. It was from the Operations office, with a hand-written address—not a form letter to all Captains, then. He tore open the envelope, and started reading.

"Well I'll be …" he said, his face breaking into a grin. "If that doesn't just take the cake!"

He stood up, and poked his head into the locker room. Johnny was just opening his locker to begin getting ready for the shift.

"Oh, you're here," Stanley said. "Pop into my office when you're all set, will ya?"

"Sure, Cap."

Hank poured himself another cup of coffee, and returned to his office. He couldn't bring himself to open any of the rest of the mail quite yet, so he waited for Johnny. Two minutes later, Johnny trotted into the office, turned a chair around backwards, and plopped himself down.

"What's up?" he said, tipping the chair onto two legs.

"Hmm," said Captain Stanley. "Let's see." He stood up, and turned his chair around backwards, and tipped it precariously.

Johnny stared at him.

"Or how about this one?" Cap turned his chair forwards again, sat down, and tipped it backwards on two legs, feet up on the desk.

"Uh … you feelin' okay, Cap?"

"Sure," said Hank. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just, the thing with the chair. You never sit like that."

"Why do you suppose I don't?" Hank asked patiently, as he turned his chair around the normal way and sat behind his desk.

"Because it looks ridiculous, and Captains hafta look—" Johnny closed his mouth abruptly. "Oh." He turned his chair around, and sat properly.

"You got it, pal," Hank said. He passed the paper across the desk to Johnny. "Have a look at this."

Johnny scanned the page, mumbling to himself as he did so. " … promotion, I knew that … wow, okay, ten days from now … _what?_" He looked up, wide-eyed, at Hank Stanley.

Hank grinned so hard his molars showed. "Yep! Station 93, C-shift. Welcome to the brass, Captain Gage."

**TBC**


	20. Writing on the Wall

A/N: (1) I have no idea what the LACoFD HQ building looks like. So I invented my own. It's probably much bigger than the real thing. (2) Bert Saunders also appears in "Probie Snapshots."

.

**Chapter 20: Writing on the Wall**

_One year later._

Mike Stoker arrived at his office on Friday morning at his usual time of 0730. He exited the elevator at the sixth floor, which housed the Arson/Fire Investigation Unit, and walked down to the end of the floor where his office was. His slight limp, the one visible physical effect of the nearly-fatal accident that had knocked him out of active firefighting duty eighteen months previously, would have been unnoticed by all but the most trained observers.

He stopped short at his office door, keys in hand.

"Shit," he said flatly.

While he'd always known something like this would happen sooner or later, he wasn't prepared for how ugly it would look. He was not a man who liked ugly, disorderly things, and this was both. The vandal hadn't bothered to do a neat job.

"FAGGOT"

The word was scrawled in bright red paint, in a crude attempt at block capitals, right at eye level. Dribbles of paint fell from the bottom of each letter. The brass name plate and numbers on the door were painted over thickly, as an extra added insult. He touched the paint carefully—it was tacky, but not wet, suggesting that the perpetrator had done his work in the wee hours of the morning.

Mike silently unlocked his office door, avoiding touching the paint. He set his lunch down on his desk, and picked up the phone. He dialed the extension for the maintenance office, down in the basement.

"Maintenance—Bert speaking."

Mike sighed with relief—the one maintenance worker he could trust to handle this abomination quietly was Bert Saunders, who Mike had worked with for over a year at his first station. Just a few months after Mike completed his probie year, Bert was seriously burned in a fire and no longer able to work as a firefighter. Like Stoker, though, he declined medical retirement, and went on to serve the department, in his case, as the head of building maintenance for department HQ. "Hi, Bert. It's Mike Stoker."

"Silent Stoker! You're still showin' up at 0730, I see. What's up? Somethin' broke in your office?"

Mike hesitated. "Not exactly. Any chance you could come up?"

"Sure," said Bert. "Anything in particular I should bring, maintenance-wise?"

Mike snorted. "Not unless you have a whole new office door I could have."

Bert was silent for a moment. "Huh."

"Had a little vandalism problem, it seems."

"Okay, your door open in or out?"

"In, and the hinges are on the left when you look at it from the outside."

"All right, Mike. I'll see if I have a spare. I'll be up in a few."

Mike laughed. "I was kidding, actually—but if you _do_ have a spare door, well, that would be just the thing." He replaced the receiver, dreading the next call he knew he needed to make.

As he wavered by the phone, dreading making the call, Mike thought about how he'd revealed to Johnny the one thing about himself he'd worked so hard to hide. His remark—the one that started the whole thing—could've been taken any number of ways.

"_I'm not who you think I am, all right? You're not _like_ me."_

But Johnny had understood. Not only had he understood, but he'd taken a huge chance and followed that remark with an unambiguous statement about his own extremely flexible sexual orientation. From that moment, when the invisible wall between them had been lifted, it was like they'd never _not_ been together.

Mike transferred out from 51s, of course, explaining that the long commute and rising gas prices meant he needed to work closer to his home. Nobody had questioned his logic, and he settled into an equally family-like atmosphere at a rural station in the northern part of the county. Johnny kept his apartment near Station 51, but really, the two of them quietly lived together at Mike's house.

A year after that invisible wall had disappeared, Mike had nearly gotten killed when an inattentive driver hit him on the scene of an MVA. His femur was shattered, instantly ending his firefighting career. But it was the four badly broken ribs that tore through his right lung that nearly ended his life. And with that life-altering, nearly life-ending moment also came the end of the secrecy. Johnny couldn't take a month off work, spending every moment at someone's hospital bedside, without people realizing he and Mike weren't just housemates.

Mike rubbed his hand over his forehead. He didn't have a headache yet, but he knew it would come. He sighed, and picked up the phone.

"_L.A. County Fire Department, Station 93, Captain Gage speaking._"

"Hey, it's me."

"_Hey! Everything okay_?"

"Uh, not really. Wanted to give you a heads-up—someone did a nasty little number on my office door. Real poetic—they scrawled 'faggot' in red paint. And it was obviously someone in the department—paint's still wet, so it must've been done overnight."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. "_Shit. That sucks. Anything I can do on this end_?"

"No," Mike sighed. "Just wanted you know that the dreaded and expected shit has hit the fan. I doubt any of it will blow your way, since you're kind of a moving target, but just in case, keep alert for any nastiness from HQ."

"'_kay_." Johnny paused. "_Any idea who did it_?"

"No," said Mike, "and I'm actually just going to try to get it taken care of quietly. Not make a fuss, you know?" Mike imagined he could actually hear Johnny's eyebrows knitting at that remark.

"_You mean, you're not telling anyone about this_?"

"No, for now. Bert from down in maintenance is coming up—remember, the guy I knew from 14s? If he can just take care of it quietly, I think that would be best."

"_You should at least take a picture, Mike. I mean, you have a camera in your office—just snap a couple shots_."

"Huh. That's not a bad idea. I mean, I don't want to make an issue of it right now, but, if he does anything else, well …"

"_Yeah. Shit, Mikey. Watch your back, all right? What are you doing today, anyhow_?"

"Don't know—probably following up on that supermarket fire from last week."

"_See if you can, I dunno, get away from HQ for a while today, would ya_?"

"I'll try. I was thinking I would maybe park the truck somewhere else for a while, too—maybe not in the HQ parking lot."

"_Yeah_."

"Okay. I'll check in later, all right?"

"_Yeah_." Johnny sighed heavily into the receiver at his end. "_Fuck, Mike. This is bullshit._"

"Bona fide bovine feces, all right."

Johnny laughed. "_You always do that._"

"Do what?"

"_Take something completely shitty, and manage to make me laugh about it_."

"You can't tell me you didn't need it."

"_Oh, I did. Believe me, I did. But seriously. Keep your eyes open, all right? And tell someone. Even if it's not somebody who you think can do anything._"

"Okay. I kind of did already—I mean, Bert from maintenance." Mike heard the elevator door open. "Listen, I gotta go. Have a safe shift—see you in the morning."

"_'kay. Bye._"

Mike replaced the receiver on the cradle, and stepped outside his office. Bert was standing in the hallway, with a cart holding a door that looked identical to the defaced one. Mike helped him maneuver the door against the wall, where they set it down.

Bert stepped back to take in the damage.

Mike watched as Bert examined the paint on the door, feeling it for tackiness just as Mike had a few minutes earlier. The short sleeves of Bert's blue uniform shirt did nothing to hide the ridged whorls of scar tissue that covered his left arm. Bert turned to look at Mike. The left side of Bert's face was similarly affected. Though only half his face was able to show expression, that half did its job well.

"That's ugly," he said, the right half of his face frowning severely.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't at the top of my list for things I wanted to see this morning."

Bert sized up the door. "I should be able to just pop this one out, and put the new one in. Should only take a few minutes."

"Great! Before you get started, though, I need to take a couple pictures, for evidence." Mike unlocked his desk, and pulled his camera out of the bottom drawer.

"Oh. Okay," said Bert. "I don't hafta be in 'em or anything, do I?" he asked, backing away from the door hastily.

"No," said Mike. "I just want to document this in case anything else happens." He snapped a couple shots, and then put the lens cap back on. "All set."

"Okay. I'll pull the pins from the hinges, and I'll be outta your hair in a jiffy."

"Man, Bert; you're amazing."

"Well, in a building this size? We've got spares for just about everything." Bert looked at the damage again. "That's … um." He shook his head. "I guess the thing to do is swap out the old door, and just let it dry, then sand down the whole front of the door. At least you won't have to look at it in the mean time." He reached into his tool belt and pulled out a pair of pliers, and pulled the pin from the top hinge.

"Listen, Bert. Is there any way you can keep this quiet?"

"Quiet?" Bert looked up sharply.

"I don't want to make a stink about it," Mike said neutrally. "I figured something like this would happen someday, and I just want to ignore it as best I can."

"You figured—" Bert pulled out the pin from the bottom hinge, and dropped it into a pocket on his utility belt. "What?" He looked back at Mike, not understanding.

"I figured," Mike said calmly, "that someone at HQ was bound to find out I was gay, and that something like this would happen someday."

"But aren't you—" Bert's eyes darted involuntarily to the ring on Mike's left hand. "Isn't that—"

"It is. But the person wearing the other one is a man."

"Oh." Bert looked away for a moment, and then brought himself back. "Oh." He tapped the pin out of the hinge in the middle, and the two men pulled the defaced door into the hallway. Mike helped Bert line the new door up with the hinges, and held it steady as Bert tapped the pins in.

"You're all set," Bert said. "The nameplate, and the numbers—I can clean those up this morning. I'll come put them back up as soon as I can."

"Thanks."

Bert stared at Mike. Mike just stared right back.

"I never would've guessed," Bert said. "I mean, we worked together for what, a year and a half? And I didn't ever think …" He hesitated. "You just always seemed like a regular guy, you know?"

"Well, every other way, I am. Does it bother you?" Mike asked, point blank.

Bert looked away, then back again. "I think, that before this—" he gestured up and down his scarred left side— "it probably would've. But now? I think it's safe to say I've learned a thing or two about judging people. And what's important, and what's not. So no, Mike. I guess it doesn't bother me. I just … didn't know, is all."

"Not exactly a trait that I want to advertise in this line of work."

"I guess not," said Bert. "And I guess I can see why you want to keep this thing quiet." He tipped the defaced door on its side, and pulled it up onto the cart, ready to roll it down to the service elevator.

"Thanks, Bert. I really appreciate it. The replacement door, and the discretion."

"No problem on either count." He looked back at Stoker before returning to the elevator. "And Mike?"

Stoker looked back out the doorway. "Yeah?"

"I hope this kind of shit doesn't happen again, but if it does? You gotta do somethin' about it."

Mike sighed. "Sure, Bert. Like what? Most of the people I could complain to couldn't do anything anyhow. Some of the people I could complain to might have _done_ this."

Bert frowned. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess they could've." He shook his head. "Well, take care, all right? I'll clean off the nameplate and numbers and bring 'em back up ASAP."

"Thanks, Bert."

Mike watched Bert roll the cart down to the service elevator. He gave one last wave, and retreated into his office. He sat at his desk, and held his head in his hands for a minute or two. He pulled out his file on the suspicious supermarket fire he'd been investigating, and went to work.

After an hour or so, other people began arriving on Mike's floor. As was his custom, Mike left his door slightly ajar. He preferred knowing there were other people around—knowing he wasn't working in a vacuum. On rare occasions—for instance, if he and a co-worker were going over sensitive information before a trial—he might close his door, but it was usually open.

Mike carefully kept nothing obviously related to his domestic life visible in his office. The one photo of Johnny that anyone else could see was a picture of the entire A-shift from 51—Cap, Marco, Chet, Johnny, Roy, and Mike himself—alongside a picture of the A-shift from Station 93. The other photos on his office walls were landscapes and nature photos—pictures that Johnny had taken while they were together. If he couldn't have pictures _of_ Johnny showing in his office, he would darned well have pictures _by_ him.

The upper right drawer of Mike's desk was a different story. There, tilted at the perfect angle to be viewed from the desk chair, were Mike's three favorite pictures. One was a picture Dixie McCall had taken of the two of them, standing on their deck, at the backyard party they'd had for all their friends the day after they had privately exchanged their rings and made their vows to each other.

Another was a framed shot of Johnny in action at a motor vehicle accident scene. This photo and several others were mailed to the station by a newspaper photographer who had been in one of the cars on his way to work—he had been involved in the accident, but was uninjured, and captured all of Station 51's A-shift personnel at work. No other people were in the shot, and Johnny was just getting ready to call Rampart on the biophone—no big action—but Mike loved the picture, because the photographer had captured Johnny's intensity perfectly.

The third and final picture was Mike's favorite of all the shots—Johnny, shirtless and sopping wet in swim trunks, emerging from the ocean in the late evening. Mike had taken the picture with Johnny's camera on a whim, not really knowing what he was doing, but somehow, it had turned out perfectly. Johnny's crooked grin was lit perfectly by the light of what the Hollywood directors would call the "golden hour"—that time of day where everything looked perfect. His eyes were looking right at the camera—Mike suspected that if the photo were blown up enough, it would be like one of those paintings where no matter where you stood, the subject's eyes seemed to follow you.

Someone coming through the doorway might notice that Mike's drawer was open, but wouldn't be able to see the pictures. Mike only bothered to close the drawer when someone actually came into the office, which was fairly infrequent.

But just then, there was a knock at the open door.

"Knock knock," said the man at the door, as he rapped quietly with his knuckles.

"Hey, Wes. Come on in," said Mike, as he slid his drawer shut, with one last look.

Wes Harris was the other investigator on the supermarket case Mike was working on. Mike's responsibilities involved certain scientific and technical aspects of the case, while Wes's were focused on working with the L.A. Sheriff's office.

"What's up with your door?" Harris asked. "The numbers are gone—I almost went right past to Wilson's office."

"Oh, maintenance took them off to get cleaned and polished or some such nonsense." Mike waved his hand dismissively. "They'll probably take Wilson's next."

"Huh," said Harris. "I wonder why they didn't just take 'em all at once. Seems silly to go up, and down, and up, and down—those guys have enough work to do without dinking around like that."

Mike laughed. "Well, you just said it—you almost went right past my office to Wilson's—what would happen if _nobody_ had numbers on their doors?" He really wanted to change the subject; move along to actual business.

"Guess so," said Wes. He flopped down into the chair in front of Stoker's desk. "So what'd the lab say about that sample from the stock room?"

Mike was relieved to get down to business—he pulled out the lab report and went over the findings with Harris. As they were finishing up, Bert Saunders tapped on the door.

"Sorry to bother you—just bringing back all your brass stuff, nice and polished. Good as new," said Bert. "I know you arson folks like everything nice and neat."

"Oh, thanks, Bert. We're just finishing up here, anyhow, if you wanted to put them back on."

Wes nodded and stood up. "Yep, we're done. Have a good weekend if I don't see you."

"You too—got any good plans?" Mike had become adept at asking people about their home lives while still sidestepping any questions about his own.

"Sure—supposed to be nice. Melissa and I are gonna work on the yard tomorrow, then there's some big church lunch on Sunday." Harris paused—an uncomfortable, tense moment. It wasn't exactly a secret that Mike lived with a guy, but that didn't mean Harris had to like it. At least, he thought, Stoker had the sense to keep quiet about it. The ring, though—that pissed Harris off. But he'd long ago decided just to politely ignore it. Because really, what else could he do?

"How 'bout you?" Harris said, finally, realizing it was outright rude not to ask Stoker, in turn, about his weekend.

"Oh, similar," Mike said. "Lots of yard work to be done this time of year. Deck needs a good power-washing, too, though I don't know whether we'll get to it. And a buddy from my days at 51s is coming by on Saturday—Chet Kelly. You know 'im?"

"Kelly, Kelly—nope; can't say that I do." Harris glanced at the pictures on Mike's wall. He usually avoided looking at these photos, figuring from the rumors he'd heard that one of the men was likely Mike's … well … he didn't know what to call him. "Which one is Kelly?"

"Short guy with the mustache—quite the station prankster. He's an engineer at 110s now."

Harris walked over and inspected the picture, not looking at Chet Kelly at all. The tall man in his late thirties must be the captain—couldn't be him. The Mexican-looking guy? Nah, Harris couldn't see him being the one. His eyes fell on the one it had to be. It had to be one of the paramedics. It could've been the blond one, but his money was on the dark, young-looking one. Yep, that had to be the one.

Mike noticed Wes studying the picture. "You recognize him?"

He startled Wes out of his inspection. "Uh, no. Just thought maybe I recognized one of the other guys. Who're the paramedics?"

"John Gage, on your left, and Roy DeSoto."

"I wonder if maybe my wife knows DeSoto's wife, or something," Harris said, looking at Mike for a reaction.

"Could be," Mike said. "Joanne does a lot of things."

_Bingo_, Harris thought. He pulled himself away from the photo. "Anyhow. Have a good one. I'm off to the sheriff's for the rest of the day." _Gage_, he thought. _Yeah, I think I heard some mutterings about that name. Hafta remember that._

Bert stepped out of the doorway to let Harris through.

"What was that all about?" asked Bert, recognizing the oddness and stiffness of that last exchange.

Mike laughed, one short bark. "Oh, you know. Every now and then, someone just _has_ to check out those pictures, just _has_ to try and figure it out. I can practically hear what's going on in their heads. 'Which one is it? It couldn't be the captain, but what about the short guy? _He_ looks like he could be gay.' Then they look at the picture from 93s—I don't know who they might single out there. But nobody asks—nobody ever, ever, asks. They want to know—morbid curiosity I guess—but they don't want to actually admit they want to know.

"Aw, hell; I probably oughta just take those pictures down—save everyone the trouble. But everyone in HQ has pictures from their station days—everyone. Especially us guys who can't go back. Heck, you've got one from when we were at 14s, I'll bet."

"Sure do," said Bert, as he finished tacking the numbers on the door, right over the shiny name plate. "And I'll tell you something—you and me, we both had a lot less gray hair back then."

Bert inspected his work, put his hammer back in his tool belt, and made sure there were no tacks on the floor. "Okay, all set here," said Bert. "I'll just clean up the other one and keep it as a spare." Stoker didn't reply. Bert looked back at Mike, who was sitting at his desk, staring at the two group photos on the wall, shoulders slumped, head slightly down.

Bert stood there for a moment, watching Stoker. Slowly, he turned back into the office, and walked over to the wall. "I'm asking, Stoker. Show me, who is he? Who's your, um …" he trailed off awkwardly. "I don't know what the right word is," he admitted.

"Partner," said Mike. He stood up, and led Bert to the picture of 51's A-shift, from over three years ago. "That's him," he said, pointing to Johnny. "That's Johnny."

"Paramedic, huh?" said Bert.

"Yep—he's a captain, now, way up at 93s—though of course he didn't start there till after I was gone—but he still pulls some sub shifts as a medic from time to time."

Bert looked at the picture thoughtfully. "I might've been better off if those guys had been around when I got hurt," he said. "But back then, they just threw us in an ambulance and got rid of us as fast as they could."

"They do good work," Mike said. He pointed to the picture of the A-shift from Station 93. "Yang, right there, and Velasquez—they probably saved my life when I got hit by that car. Broken ribs punctured my lung—back before the paramedics, I probably wouldn't have made it to the hospital. So who knows, for you—might've helped. Burns, though—I don't know, Bert; from what I understand, there's not much they can do at the scene, except oxygen and fluids."

Bert shuddered. "They can sure as hell drug you right up, for one thing," he said. "I'd call that something they can do."

"Yeah," said Mike. "Yeah, it is. I was pretty much out of it after the first, oh, five minutes, or maybe a hundred years. Probably five minutes till they hit me with the morphine."

"I'd've appreciated that," said Bert. "A lot." He cleared his throat. "Your five minutes were my forty-five. It was a goddamned long way to Rampart."

Mike looked at Bert. "You know, I think you and I have a lot in common, Bert. We're both different—in ways that make people uncomfortable to talk about it."

Bert laughed. "Yeah, that's for damned sure. 'Cept mine's on the outside, and yours ain't. But yeah, people clam up real good, don't they? I think maybe you're the first person who's ever said the word "burns" in front of me in like two years."

"And you're the first person who actually asked about Johnny," replied Mike.

They were silent for a moment. Then, both men jumped as Bert's radio came to life, calling him to the second floor for a broken light fixture.

"See you around, Stoker," said Bert. "And I hope you … don't need me again."

"Thanks, Bert. Me too."

Bert left to tend to the needs of the light fixture on the second floor. After he had his office to himself again, Mike opened his upper right drawer once more, and went back to work.

**TBC**


	21. Flattened

**Chapter 21: Flattened**

Captain John Gage sat at his desk at Station 93, filling out his last piece of paperwork from the just-completed shift. Johnny and his C-shift crew had had a reasonably easy shift—a couple of false alarms, one small trash fire, several rescue calls—until the multi-car MVA they'd been called to late the previous evening. There had only been three cars involved, but two of them were packed full of teenagers on their way home from a high-school football game, and there had been a lot of injuries. So many, in fact, that Johnny had turned incident command over to his engineer, and worked the accident as a third paramedic from their station. But the night-time portion of the 24-hour shift had been easy—just one minor call each for the engine and the squad.

After Mike's disturbing call first thing in the morning at the start of the C-shift, Johnny been worried about him the whole previous day. He wanted to get home, since it was Saturday and Mike would be waiting for him, but he knew he'd regret leaving the paperwork from the MVA until his next shift, which wasn't until Monday. So he bit the bullet, and completed and filed the necessary forms, and was done by 0820. He chatted with the arriving A-shift, who were having coffee in the kitchen, said his farewells, and headed to the parking lot behind the station.

He whistled as he walked through the morning sunshine, keys swinging on his finger. But when he reached his truck, he stopped short. All four tires were flat. He circled the truck, looking carefully at the tires, and found the expected knife marks in each one.

Johnny suddenly felt terribly cold. He looked at the other cars in the lot—they were all fine. Of course, they all belonged to A-shift men. Everyone else from Johnny's C-shift had already left, meaning their cars were fine. He looked around the parking lot, and didn't see anything else that looked unusual. Without touching his vehicle, he walked back to the station, set his keys on the table, and sat down silently.

"What's up, Johnny?" asked Henry Yang, one of the A-shift paramedics. Johnny was well-acquainted with 93's A-shift, as Mike had worked that shift for over a year, until the accident that knocked him out of active firefighting. Johnny hadn't gotten to know the men while Mike was working with them, but got to know them all well during Mike's recovery and afterward.

"All four of my tires got slashed," he said curtly.

Cups clattered to the table.

"Shit," said Washington, one of the firefighters. "And it's not like we're in a bad neighborhood here, either."

"John, you need to call the sheriff, you know," said Captain Sterling.

"Yeah," he said glumly.

"Shit, who'd do something like that?" asked Yang. "Everybody likes you, man. Must be some random crank."

Johnny frowned. "No," he said slowly. "I think it's personal." He looked up at the men around the table. "Mike's office door got trashed yesterday morning. Probably by someone who works at HQ. So I don't think these four tires are a coincidence."

"That's a hell of a thing," said Washington. "You definitely gotta call the sheriff, man."

"Yep." Johnny tried to shake off the dirty feeling he had. "Mind if I use the office for a minute, Len?"

"All yours," said Captain Sterling.

Johnny retreated to the office he'd just left, and picked up the phone. He'd make the harder call first, he decided.

Mike picked up on the third ring.

"_Hello_?"

"Hey, it's me."

"_Uh-oh_." Mike had immediately recognized Johnny's really-upset-and-not-sure-what-to-do tone. "_What's wrong_?"

Johnny cut right to the chase. "My tires got slashed. All four of 'em."

There was silence on the end of the line. "_Probably not a coincidence, timing-wise._"

"No."

"_You calling the sheriff_?"

"Yeah. At least for this crap I can file a report with law enforcement. I'm gonna leave it at that, though."

More silence. "_I don't like this, Johnny. Somebody's getting to both of us, at the same time. I just have a bad feeling this is gonna get ugly._"

"Well, Mike, in my book it's already ugly. But who knows—maybe the jerk was stupid enough to leave prints—everyone in the department has their prints on file, so maybe this'll be it."

"_Maybe_," Mike said skeptically.

"Listen, I should go. I'll call the sheriff, then I guess I'll get the Rover towed into town. I'll give you a call to pick me up when I'm ready, all right?"

"_Actually, I'll just get in the car now, and come pick you up at 93s_."

"Hey, good idea! A-shift's on—sure they'll be glad to see you."

"_Okay—I'll see you in, oh, forty-three minutes or so_. _Bye_."

Johnny held the phone receiver between his ear and his shoulder, depressed the hang-up buttons on the cradle briefly, and dialed another number.

"_L.A. County Sheriff's office, Deputy White speaking._"

"Hey, Fred. It's John Gage from Station 93."

"_Johnny! How's it goin'?_"

"Uh, actually, not so great. I kinda need you to send a car out to the station."

Deputy White immediately reset his tone from flippant to professional. "_Okay. What happened?_"

"Some bastard slashed my tires."

White let out a low whistle. "_That's no good. I'll be out in a few._"

"Thanks, Fred."

Johnny replaced the receiver, and got out the phone book. He quickly called Ryan's Towing Service—Jim Ryan usually picked up the wrecks from MVAs, so the fire department knew him well—and arranged for a flatbed to take the Rover into Santa Clarita.

Johnny hung up the phone, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyelids. The weekend was not shaping up the way he'd hoped. He and Mike didn't get many weekends where Johnny didn't have to work one of the days, and today, at least, would be half taken up by the logistics of getting new tires on the Rover. Plus, they now had something unpleasant hanging over their heads—the fact that it was almost certainly someone from the department who had vandalized Mike's door and Johnny's car. Or, Johnny realized, more than one someone.

Johnny had been aware, when he took his Captain's exam, that there were probably people in the department who would want to get rid of him. His initial fear would be that he would be given such an undesirable assignment that it would be an invitation to refuse the promotion—a career-killing move at that point. Indeed, many men would have considered the Station 93 placement a kind of punishment, as the station was way off the beaten path in a corner of L.A. county. The station, like others in far corners of the county, had trouble retaining staff, with many men requesting transfers so they could be closer to the city. But, Johnny hadn't minded—he preferred being away from the pollution and noise of the city, and the commute from the house he shared with Mike was easier than the one to Station 51. Plus, there was the added bonus of already knowing and trusting the men on one of the other shifts.

But still, Johnny knew that within the department, when his name was mentioned, it was often followed by phrases like "Oh, you mean the one who..." or "Isn't he, uh, you know?" or other unpleasantries. Mike and Johnny made sure they were never, ever seen at HQ together, even though Mike's office was there, and Johnny's position as Captain took him there on a regular basis—and even though plenty of people there probably knew they were together, both Mike and Johnny were uncomfortable advertising the fact in their highly conservative workplace. No point in taking a teensy, smoldering fire—maybe a cigarette in a damp garbage can—and throwing gasoline on it. He sighed, and headed to the kitchen table again.

"Okay?" asked Len Sterling.

"Not really," Johnny admitted. "I guess Mike and I had figured we'd have trouble sometime, but when it comes, you're not really ready for it."

Captain Sterling frowned at Johnny's defeated-looking expression. "Look, John. The sheriff's coming, right?"

Johnny nodded. "Yeah; Fred White's on his way down."

"You don't need to tell him anything other than the facts—someone slashed all four of your tires. That's a crime."

"Yeah."

"You don't need to speculate with Fred about why you think this happened, unless you feel like it. No matter why it was done, it's still a crime. Mike's office door—now that's a different story, unfortunately. Can't really call the law in on that one without stirring up quite a fuss. Did you want to say anything else about that, by the way?"

Johnny sighed. "Bastard painted 'faggot' in red paint, still wet when he got there yesterday morning. Mike's keeping it quiet, but he took pictures before the maintenance guy replaced the door, just in case—well, just in case."

He slapped the table sharply, just once. "We _knew_ this was gonna happen, Len—I mean, there was no _way_ people didn't figure out about us when Mike was in the hospital all that time. But you know us—we don't flaunt it or anything. When I have to be at HQ for any captainy kinds of things, we make sure we avoid each other. I've never seen his office. We made sure never to work together once we got involved. But we _knew_ it, Len—we _knew_ that some people just wouldn't be able to leave it alone."

Captain Sterling sighed. "To be honest, John, I'm surprised it took this long. It's been what—eighteen months since Mike got hit?"

"Yeah, 'bout that," said Johnny. "I was real worried, when I went for the captaincy, that the rumors would hold me back. Or that they'd stick me someplace awful to try to get rid of me. I dunno."

"Well," Len said, "some people would consider this neck of the woods to be pretty awful. But it suits us just fine, doesn't it."

"About that," Johnny said. "Um, when I came up for a captaincy, did you have anything to do with my getting the C-shift posting here?"

Len's eyes sparkled. "Oh, I might've suggested you'd last longer than the last guy, is all. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all—I guess with, uh, things bein' the way they are and all, I feel kinda lucky to have gotten anything, let alone Mike's old station. Though I'm glad it wasn't your shift—that woulda been too weird, with how much you all helped us out and all."

Sterling grinned through his thick mustache. "Well, for it to have been my shift, I would've had to be gone, and I ain't goin' anywhere any time soon. I like it just fine right here."

"Me too, Len. I just hope—" Johnny hesitated.

"What, John?"

"Well, I just hope this guy, whoever he is, doesn't take things so far that Mike and I have to—"

"Now hold your horses, Gage," Sterling said sternly. "First of all, despite any cowardly vandals who're lurking in the department, you just remember that you two boys have an awful lot of friends here, too, all right?"

Johnny nodded glumly.

"And second of all—you're not letting Mike's anxious tendencies rub off on you, are you? Let's not assume the worst, all right?"

"Okay. Yeah." Johnny's hunched shoulders lowered ever so slightly. "You're right. If I start getting nervous, Mike will positively explode with anxiety." He thought about what he'd said, and amended it. "Implode. That's more his style."

"Attaboy."

The two men looked up when they heard a car pull into the lot outside the kitchen door.

"Right," said Johnny. "Time to go talk to the law." He stood up and looked down at Sterling. "Thanks, man. Really."

"Any time, John. You know that."

"Yeah, I do."

Johnny trotted out to the parking lot just as Deputy Fred White was getting out of his vehicle. "White" was a name that suited him perfectly—his hair was so blond as to be practically white. His skin was pink and freckled under the constant beating of the southern sun, and he had to wear sunglasses on all but the cloudiest of days.

"Hey, Fred. Thanks for comin' out." The two shook hands.

"No problem. So show me the damage," said Fred.

Johnny pointed him to the Rover. "Right there—knife through all four tires."

Fred let out a low whistle. "Shoot, someone's wrecked your mornin' but good. Any idea who mighta done this?"

Johnny was prepared for this question. "Naw, nobody specific. But you know how it is—there's always someone who's got a bone to pick, and some people can't just come right out and pick it."

Fred nodded, and got his notebook out. "So, what was the shift like yesterday—any extended runs?"

"Just the one—the crash with all those kids."

Fred shook his head. "Man, that was quite a thing. How many did you end up shipping to Henry Mayo?"

"Five. Two pretty minor—just needed stitches and such. Two of the others had multiple fractures and other injuries, but the last one?" Johnny shook his head. "I rode in with him. It was touch and go the whole way. You hear anything?"

"No," said Fred, "and that's good news. We hear about it when it's bad news. Anyhow," he continued, "sounds like there was plenty of time when there was nobody at the station—plenty of time for this to get done without anyone noticing.

"And the truth of it is," Johnny added, "it could've happened while we were all here—at night—and we wouldn't have noticed then, either."

Fred walked around the Rover, and made a diagram of the knife mark in each tire. He flipped his notebook closed. "I'll be honest with you, Gage. There's no chance in hell we'll catch whoever did this, understand? All I can do, really, is take your statement, and give you a copy of the report just in case your insurance will cover the tires."

Johnny shook his head. "Don't bother—it won't. I just carry the minimum coverage on this heap."

Fred smiled. "Oh, I hear your mouth sayin' 'heap,' but I see your eyes sayin' 'baby.' You don't fool me, pal."

"Yeah, okay," Johnny said sheepishly. "I like my Rover. We've had a lot of fun times."

"That's the spirit," said Fred. "Jim Ryan comin' to get her?"

"Yep—he said he'd set me up with a good tire place in Santa Clarita."

"All right, Johnny. Well, I oughta go—got some follow-ups from the crash last night. And—if we can arrange it, we'll try to send an extra patrol up this way for the next couple nights."

Johnny almost told Fred not to bother unless C-shift was on duty, but then thought better of it. "Thanks," he said instead. "We all appreciate it. See ya," he said as Fred was closing the car door.

Johnny went back to the kitchen and finished another cup of coffee before Jim Ryan arrived with the flatbed. They got the Rover loaded up, and Ryan gave Johnny the number of the place he was taking the vehicle. "You'll get a good deal—guy's had a soft spot for firemen ever since his shop had a tiny fire that could've turned bad real fast."

After Ryan left, Johnny found himself in the odd position of being at his fire station with nothing in particular he needed to do. He went out to the apparatus bay, just to hang out. Yang and Velasquez were just finishing their inventory of the squad.

"Hey, Johnny," said Yang. "You get that car taken care of?"

"Yep, Ryan just hauled her off to some place in Santa Clarita where he says I'll get a good deal. Boy, I'll tell ya, that's a good thing about working out here off the beaten path—people know each other, know who to trust with stuff. Down near the city, man, it's a different story." He looked over the boxes of equipment the paramedics were putting away, and Yang noticed the path of his gaze.

"You ever miss it?" he asked.

"Yeah, sometimes," said Johnny. "I get in enough hours to keep up my certification, though. But I'll tell you, I don't mind not gettin' beat up all the time."

Yang laughed. "Gage, you were a legend in the department for how often you got messed up. I don't know how you managed it. I mean, we rescue men tend to take the hits fairly often, but you? Like I said—a legend."

"Yeah, and that's the part I don't miss so much. You get to a certain point, and you realize you're not immortal, ya know? Plus, well, I got someone who wouldn't appreciate being left behind."

"No, he sure wouldn't!"

The three paramedics turned to the day room doorway, to see Mike Stoker standing there in his Saturday civvies.

"Hey, Wrong-Way!" exclaimed Velasquez. "C'mon in!" Mike had picked up the unfortunate nickname when he first started at Station 93, because the layout of his new station was an exact mirror image of that of Station 51, and Mike was continually colliding with people by heading the wrong direction.

"Hey, guys. Hey, Johnny." Mike went over to Johnny and just stood near him—even though the others present were accepting of their relationship, Johnny and Mike were not in the habit of public displays of affection. "You got the Rover taken care of?"

"Yeah, Jim Ryan's taking her to a good place in Santa Clarita. I'll give them a call when we get home."

"Mind if I say hi to Len real quick? I caught Washington and Armstrong out back already, but I haven't seen Len in a while."

"Sure—I think he must be in the office with Holtz," said Johnny, "since I don't see either one of 'em out here."

"All right—I'll just be a minute," said Mike.

"What're you two up to this weekend?" asked Yang.

"Oh, a pal from 51s is coming by this afternoon, and this pal means beer. How 'bout you?"

"Not much—or at least, not much that's gonna be any fun. Baby's due in another month, and Mindy's been pretty nuts with getting the room ready and everything. I mean, it's a _baby_—they don't care what their room looks like, for crying out loud."

"Yeah," smiled Johnny, "but you gotta admit—that formerly spare room was pretty spectacular, with the golden eagles on the wallpaper." Johnny spent quite a lot of nights in the Yang's spare room during Mike's lengthy stay at Henry Mayo hospital. "Glad you'll be putting that room to good use."

They chatted for a few minutes, until Mike emerged from the Captains' office. Johnny grinned as Mike stopped to give the shining Seagrave engine a little pat.

"She's doin' fine, Mike. Don't worry—I keep an eye out."

"I know, I know. I just don't get my hands on real equipment any more, you know?"

Johnny raised an eyebrow at him, and Mike blushed furiously. Neither Yang nor Velasquez seemed to notice that little exchange.

"All right, guys—I've had enough of this joint for a couple days. Have a safe shift. See ya next time," said Johnny.

He and Mike headed through the day room out to the parking lot, where Mike had parked his pickup truck.

"Okay, Gage; say it," Mike said, grinning widely.

"Let's get home, so you can get your hands on some real equipment."

"Walked right into that one, didn't I."

**TBC**


	22. Mail Call

**Chapter 22: Mail Call**

"Hey, what time did you say Chet was coming over?" Mike asked, as he pulled the pickup truck into their driveway.

"One o'clock," said Johnny. "He's bringing beers, and we're making lunch. Shoot," he frowned. "I was gonna pick up stuff for burgers on the way home. Guess we should go do that now, huh?"

Mike checked his watch. "No way—it's not even eleven, and I think you mentioned some equipment that needed checking out," he reminded Johnny, as they got out of the truck.

"So I did," said Johnny, unlocking the door and letting them both in. He kicked his shoes off and quickly peeled off his socks, saving an annoying step later.

"Race you," Mike said as toed his sneakers off quickly, without untying them.

As always, Johnny made it to the bedroom first. As always, Mike slammed the door shut, even though there was nobody else in the house.

~!~!~!~

Mike was half asleep, and started violently as the phone—the one on Johnny's nightstand—rang right next to his head.

"Mine," said Johnny. But he didn't reach for the phone.

"Ignore, ignore," said Mike. "I just love answering machines."

They listened as the machine in the hallway picked up.

"_It's Johnny's answering machine. Leave a message._"

BEEP!

"_Hey, guys, it's Chet—if you're there, pick up, will ya? 'Cause I'm leaving my house now; gotta do some errands on the way, and just needed to check with you about_—"

Johnny groaned, and rolled over Mike to answer the phone.

"Hey, Chet; what's goin' on?" he said languidly. Mistake.

Chet chortled. "_Gage, you're either stoned, or well and thoroughly—"_

"Geez, Kelly. What's up?"

"_I just couldn't remember if we said one or one thirty. That's all._"

"We said one, but if you wanna make it later that's cool," said Johnny.

"_Could we say one thirty? 'Cause I forgot tomorrow's my mom's birthday, and I gotta pick her up something_."

"Sure—one thirty—not a problem."

"_Didn't think you'd mind a little later, as soon as I heard your voice, pal_," said Chet. Johnny rolled his eyes—he could practically hear the smirk over the phone line. "_See you guys then—and I'll make damned sure not to be early!_" Chet hung up quickly before Johnny could supply a retort.

"Jesus," muttered Johnny, handing the receiver over to Mike, who hung it back up. "He was in rare form."

"I can guess what he said," laughed Mike, "'cause you did sound pretty, um, relaxed."

"Mmm. We got an extra half hour, too, if you still wanna get your hands on some more equipment."

"God, I can't believe I actually said that," said Mike. "But yeah, babe, you bet I do."

~!~!~!~!~

Johnny took Mike's truck out, just before one, to pick up grilling supplies and ice. It was a sweltering day, with bad smog conditions to the south. His hair was wet from his second shower of the day, so he left the pickup's windows down to blow his hair dry on the way to the store. He made record time getting into and out of the grocery store, and was just pulling into the driveway again as Chet's car pulled in.

"Hey, Gage," said Chet, as he hauled a case of beer out of the back seat. He looked around. "Where's the Rover?" he asked.

Johnny sighed, as pulled the cooler of ice out, along with the bag of groceries, and kneed the door of the truck closed. "Long story—and not a pretty one, either. C'mon in." He opened the front door, and he and Chet set their burdens down in the foyer.

"Oooh, central air," exclaimed Chet. "Good move, man. When'd you guys do that?"

"Couple months ago," said Johnny. "When both the living room and bedroom window units crapped out on us at once, Mike took it as a message from above, and with my captain's pay we could just do it, so we bit the bullet and went for the central AC."

"Uh-oh; do I hear a bit of a domestic disagreement here?"

"Nah," said Johnny, shrugging. "I coulda gone either way, but Mike, he really hates the heat, and it turns out to be cheaper in the long term to run central air than a bunch of window units, so we did it."

"Great," said Chet. "When can I move in?"

Mike emerged from the bedroom, hair still damp from his recent and hasty shower. "Hey, Kelly! Long time no see."

"Yeah, coupla months, I think—but fear not. You'll see plenty of me from now on. I'm moving in, now that I know you guys have central air." Chet started poking beer bottles into the ice in the cooler. "So what's the ugly story with the Rover?"

Mike looked at Johnny. They hadn't discussed what, if anything, they were going to say to their friends about the incidents of harassment.

"Chet pulled in just as I was coming back, and noticed the Rover wasn't here," said Johnny. He raised his eyebrows, in a wordless query to Mike: _Do we tell him the whole story?_

"Ah," said Mike. He nodded, answering Johnny's silent question.

"So what's the deal?" Chet prodded, noticing the exchange, and never one to leave things alone.

"Well, this calls for a beer," said Mike. "They're not cold yet, but I don't really care." He popped three bottles, and motioned everyone to the cool living room.

Chet flopped into the recliner, and Mike and Johnny took the couch.

"It's just what we expected would happen someday," said Mike.

"Uh oh," said Chet, knowing where this was going, and not liking it.

"Yeah. I showed up at the office on Friday, 0730 as usual, to find that some genius had artistically destroyed my office door with his own rendition of 'faggot,' in bright red paint." Mike downed half his beer.

"Shit," replied Chet.

"Shit indeed," said Mike. "And the paint was still wet, which means it was someone who had a way to be in the HQ building in the middle of the night."

"What'd you do?"

"Kept it quiet for now, so we'd appreciate if you kept this between the three of us," said Mike.

"Not a word," said Chet. And Johnny and Mike knew he meant it. When push came to shove, Chet was a guy you could count on.

"But how'd you manage for nobody to notice that?" Chet asked. "That sounds like quite a trick."

"Well, I got some help from an unexpected friend downstairs. The chief of maintenance for the building is someone I worked with at 14s, way back when I was a probie. He took care of it."

Chet looked at Johnny. "And the Rover?"

"All four tires slashed, right in 93's parking lot, probably while the station was out on a long call last night," said Johnny. "It's in Santa Clarita right now, getting four new tires about a year ahead of schedule."

Chet shook his head. "Damn. So this guy knows where you work, Gage, and what shift, and what you drive?"

"Sounds like it," said Johnny.

"And," said Chet, "it sounds like he was either staking out the station, or had some way of knowing when you were out on a big call. 'Cause I don't think anyone would risk getting caught in the parking lot while you were in quarters," he added.

"Pretty much the conclusion we came to, also," said Mike. "Not pleasant to think about."

"No," said Chet. "Man, that sucks. Anything I can do?"

"Keep your ears open, will ya?" Johnny said suddenly. "You know an awful lot of people in the department, and, well, you might hear something."

"I can do that," Chet nodded slowly. "I hate the idea that someone I know would pull shit like that, though."

"Well, I think it's fair to say that there are an awful lot of people in the department who would just as soon see me and Johnny gone, to be frank," said Mike.

"But there's a fine line—no, _not_ a fine line; a thick dark line—between, well, not approving, and harassing and destroying and such," said Chet. "People can think whatever the hell they want, but this crap?" He shook his head. "Outta line. Way the hell outta line." He paused. "Man, I really hate that it's someone in the department."

"Us too, Chet," said Johnny.

There was a clattering at the front door.

"Mail," said Mike, standing up. "I'll get it." He went to the door, and picked up a small pile of envelopes from under the mail slot. He sorted through them, throwing half out immediately, and putting the rest on the kitchen counter. He looked at the final envelope—a plain, white legal-sized envelope with no return address—and frowned. "Huh." He brought it into the living room. "That's weird—this one's addressed to both of us."

"That _is_ weird—I only ever use my P.O. Box. Who's it from?" asked Johnny.

"Doesn't say," said Mike. He ripped the flap open as he sat back down on the couch. He unfolded the single sheet of paper, and his face fell. "God damn it," he said flatly, passing the paper to Johnny.

It was a single sheet of plain white paper, with a typewritten message.

"Are you starting to get the feeling someone doesn't want you around? If so, you're right. LACoFD is a place for real men. Clear out, fags, or watch your backs."

Johnny passed it silently back to Mike, and then got up and left the room. Mike handed it to Chet, who read it and let out a low whistle.

Mike and Chet could hear rummaging in the kitchen, and shortly, Johnny came back with a plate of hamburger patties and a spatula. He passed through the living room on the way to the yard.

Mike was glad that sliding glass doors don't slam very well.

"Um," said Chet, "not that I would know how this married people stuff works, but shouldn't you go out or something?"

"No," said Mike. "He's really, really pissed. And when he gets that way, and gets quiet like that—especially when he goes outside—it turns out better if I just leave him be."

"Huh," said Chet. "Whenever he got mad at me, for one of my pranks or something, he'd usually get pretty loud."

Mike snorted. "That's because he wasn't really all that mad. Trust me—he's fuming. He never even wanted the world at large to know we live together, Chet. He's gotten over a lot of that since my accident kind of outed both of us. But getting that letter, addressed to both of us, here? Well. Not good."

Chet looked confused. "But, I mean, it doesn't seem to me like he's, I don't know. Don't take this the wrong way, but I guess 'ashamed' is the word I'm looking for."

Mike shook his head. "He's not—that's not it at all. It's partly that privacy is a really, really big deal for him, and he goes to great pains to keep his actual home address private. He uses the P.O. box for everything—he's done that his whole adult life, actually, not just since we got together—so to get a poison pen letter sent to him here? That's _way_ bigger for him than it is for me."

"Huh. I guess I can see that," said Chet. "But you said privacy was just part of it."

"Yeah—it's more that he doesn't trust the world. He doesn't trust people not to judge him, not to hurt him. He's been judged and hurt an awful lot more than most people we know, Chet, in ways I'm just starting to understand. Don't get me wrong—I'm not saying he's fragile, or damaged, or anything like that—just that it's really, really hard work for him to trust."

"That's the part I don't get, Mike. I never felt like he didn't trust us on the job. Ever."

"See, that's the thing. The job was the one place, the one environment, where he really trusts the people. He trusted the system not to screw him over, unlike most other systems he'd ever dealt with before. Sure, he took some shit at work about being Native American, especially when he was a boot, but not so much, really."

Chet sank into his chair, and hid his face in his hands. "Yeah, and I dished some of that shit out, too."

"A little bit. But it's water under the bridge, and believe me, he had worse. Nobody at 51s ever lost his trust. Not even Marco, after he made it clear he wasn't adjusting well to knowing about us. Johnny still trusted Marco to have his back, and vice versa. But now? I would say he's instantly lost his trust in the department, just because one total asshole can't mind his own business. And the timing couldn't be worse. He was just starting to believe he would make it as a captain. Just starting to trust that even though there was no way our relationship was completely unknown at HQ, we could both still find our way in the department. And now that fragile trust has been blown the fuck out of the water. And _that's_ what's making him so mad."

"Shit," said Chet. "I guess it's more complicated than I thought."

"Yeah. Life is a hell of a lot more complicated when you don't follow the rules." Mike looked at his beer, and finished it.

"Um, do you think I should, like, clear out?" asked Chet. "Let you guys work this out?"

"No, please stay—normal is good, right? I'll just see if he's, um, defusing a bit. I might send him into the garage to pump some iron, or maybe kill the punching bag, and I'll just finish cooking the burgers myself, so sorry if we disappear on you for a few minutes."

"No problem, man. I'll just sit here and enjoy the central air."

Mike was just about to open the slider when Chet stopped him.

"But Mike, you know what?"

Mike looked over at him.

"If it were me, I'd call the cops today.

"Yeah." Mike nodded. "That would be the smart thing, and that's what I'd do if it were just me. He'll hate the idea—he already had to talk to the sheriff once today, after all—but it seems pretty clear this guy isn't done."

"It was a threat, Mike," Chet said. "'Watch your backs.' That's a threat. You can't leave that alone."

"I know. I'll talk to him." Mike slipped out the door.

Chet picked up the morning paper, and worked on his beer.

**TBC**


	23. Love and War

**Chapter 23: Love and War**

Mike joined Johnny at the grill. "Hey," he said quietly.

Johnny flipped a burger on to the platter, and moved another one to the now-vacant spot on the grill. He set the spatula down, and looked up at Mike, not quite ready to say anything yet.

"Why don't I take over here," Mike suggested.

Johnny just nodded. He reached out and took Mike's hand, planted a kiss on its palm, and folded Mike's fingers over the spot he'd just kissed. Then, he turned and stalked through the side door of the garage.

Mike laid some buns, cut side down, on the edge of the grill, and kept an eye on the burgers. The central air compressor hummed away on the side of the house, just covering the slight hiss of the propane coming out of the tank under the grill. But Mike could easily hear the clank of a barbell being slammed into a rack after a set of something. And he could hear the dull thump-thump-thump of fists connecting with the heavy punching bag hanging from the garage ceiling. Mike listened to Johnny go back and forth between the weights and the punching bag for several minutes, and was relieved to finally hear some swearing. Once the words started coming out, Mike knew, things were winding down.

Just as the burgers were nearing readiness, Johnny emerged from the garage, t-shirt draped over his bare shoulder, sweat coursing down his chest and back. He joined Mike at the grill.

"Thanks," he said.

"No problem," Mike replied. "Well, actually, _one_ problem—you're looking too hot right now for me to keep my hands off of you, and I _did_ just get out of the shower. For the second time today."

"So just look, don't touch," Johnny suggested, grinning.

"Can't be done, Gage. But this'll keep me happy for a few minutes." Mike leaned forward, keeping his body far from Johnny's sweaty one, and captured Johnny's mouth in a kiss, then, still keeping his distance otherwise, kissed down his neck to the hollow where his collarbones met, and gave that spot a sloppy kiss that threatened to be outright licking. "There," he said. "And all without me getting all sweaty again."

Johnny laughed. "Don't tempt me, Stoker. You're lucky Chet's sitting right there in the living room, or your nice clean shirt'd be my own personal sponge right about now."

"Yeah—he's a big boy and all, but I don't think he'd want to see me do to you what I _really_ want to do to you right now, so let's just go feed him," said Mike, picking up the plate of burgers and buns. "And you need to get fed too."

"For a change," said Johnny, following Mike up the steps onto the deck, and into the living room.

"Chow time," Mike announced. "But no shirt, no service, Gage, so go clean up."

Chet folded up the newspaper he'd been reading. He did a double-take as Johnny passed by.

"Holy crap, Gage."

"What? It's hot out. I sweat a lot. I got gross."

"No, I mean, you've put on some serious muscle. So much for the skinny guy. What the hell have you been doing?"

"Oh." Johnny pointed to the garage. "We've got weights out there. So I guess over the last coupla years, with more lifting, less running—I guess I finally put on those ten to fifteen pounds Brackett was always hassling me about. Plus Jiminy Cricket here doesn't let me forget to eat right." He went into the kitchen and filled and drained a large glass of water at the sink, and filled it again.

"Don't call me that," Mike said, "unless you want me to hop up on your shoulder and start singing."

Chet shook his head. "I gotta hand it to you, Gage—most of the rest of us, when we hit thirty, everything starts to go to hell."

Chet went to the kitchen with Mike and Johnny helped Mike take burger fixings to the table as Johnny worked on his second glass of water.

"Guess I oughta see about getting me some of that equipment," Chet said, looking out towards the garage.

Johnny spluttered and coughed, as the water he was drinking went down the wrong tube.

"What?" Chet said.

"Weight lifting equipment?" Mike asked, winking at Johnny from behind Chet. "Good idea—and if you get the basics, it doesn't take up much space. We certainly put all our equipment to good use, right, Johnny?"

Johnny crossed his eyes at Mike, out of Chet's line of vision. "I'm gonna go clean up. Don't wait for me."

Mike popped another beer for Chet and himself, and they tucked into their burgers. A minute or two later, Johnny came out in fresh clothes, poured himself a glass of milk, and joined them at the table.

"You know," said Johnny, after downing half a burger in two bites, "I was thinking I should call Fred White again. He's the sheriff's deputy whose beat is up by 93s," he clarified for Chet. "Since Fred took my report this morning, and this shitty letter is kind of a threat."

"Good idea," nodded Mike, casting a relieved glance at Chet. "This isn't his area, but he probably knows who you could call."

"The only thing is," Johnny said slowly, "I didn't say anything to him about why I thought someone might've slashed my tires. And I guess," he admitted, "I, uh, would rather not." He took another gargantuan bite of burger. "Since I kinda hafta work with the guy."

"What if you just called the sheriff, like a regular person—not like someone from the fire department—and just got whoever's on duty around here?" Chet said. "I mean, there's an awful lot of deputies, and your place isn't near 51's district or 93's, so you'll just get some deputy you don't know, just like any other citizen. You pay taxes too, right?"

For some reason, the idea of not using connections hadn't occurred to either Mike or Johnny.

"That's … completely reasonable," Mike said carefully. "What do you think, Johnny? Joe Citizen is about as anonymous as you can get. Plus, cops are like us—they've seen it all. They might walk away from the door shaking their heads about how those queers are just asking for trouble, but in ten minutes they'll be on to something new and different."

Johnny finished his burger silently, and washed it down with the rest of his milk. "Okay," he said simply. "I can do Joe Citizen. But after lunch, all right?"

"Sure," said Mike. "It'll keep." He held up the plate of burgers. "Another?" he said.

"You bet," said Johnny. He took a burger from the plate, and passed the plate to Chet. "You, Kelly?"

Chet shook his head, and patted his waistline. "Like I said, Gage—wrong side of thirty, hell in a handbasket. Actually," he continued, "and don't laugh at this—but I've been considering going vegetarian. Seeing how that goes for a while. S'posed to be healthy and all. Couldn't hurt with the spare tire, either."

Johnny goggled at him. "Uh, how's that gonna work at a fire station, man? I mean, you're not gonna be able to eat anything anyone cooks. And you're sure as hell not gonna be able to get away with making rabbit food when it's your turn to cook."

"I'd probably go part time—you know, eat whatever when I'm at work, and be real careful at home. You know—just to see what happens."

"Why not?" Mike said. "Can't hurt, right? I sure have to watch it now, too, since the leg. I used to run some—not like Captain Galloping Greyhound, here, but enough to keep the pounds off—but the pounding just doesn't work well with all the hardware."

Johnny looked at Mike through narrowed eyelids. "Now don't you go gettin' all hippie on me, man; I'm sticking with what I'm sticking with, all right? You got me eating vegetables, and you got me off Breakfast of Champions, but that's where I draw the line."

"Do I even want to know," Chet asked, "what Breakfast of Champions is? Was?"

Mike shook his head. "You wouldn't believe it, Chet. The first time I had breakfast at his place, I just about died. Wheaties—great, fine. Wheaties with ice cream? Damn."

"Ooh, you guys are ganging up on me," said Johnny. "Not fair, not fair."

"All's fair in love and war, babe," said Mike.

"I'll stay out of the 'love' part," announced Chet, "but I brought something apropos of 'war' that might be amusing after lunch. Perfect for this crappy heat, too. And it should bring back some fond memories of Station 51, especially for you, Gage."

"What?" Johnny asked suspiciously.

"Water balloons," Chet announced proudly. "Childish, I know, but the kids next door were doin' it yesterday, and they let me play, and it was awesome! Look in the box I brought the beers in—there's a whole mess of balloons, just waiting to get filled up and hurled."

"Excellent!" said Johnny. "I'm in."

"You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me," Mike said. "First of all, aren't we all over thirty? And second of all, it's way too hot for—" he looked at the grins on the other men's faces. "Oh, all right. I'll make you a deal—you guys clean up, and I'll call the sheriff, and then we can go play outside in the yard." He shook his head. "Unbelievable."

They finished their lunches, and, as agreed, Johnny and Chet cleaned up the kitchen. Mike used the bedroom extension to call the sheriff.

"_L.A. County Sheriff, Deputy Price speaking._"

"Hi, uh, I need to make a report about about harassment by U.S. mail—a threatening anonymous letter, actually."

"_Okay, let me get your name and address, and a call-back number. We're pretty busy this afternoon, but we'll get someone out to take a report within an hour or two, if that will be convenient._"

Mike was surprised at first by how polite and matter of fact the deputy was, but realized it was no different from how a fireman at the station would treat a citizen who called with a question or concern. "Sure—Michael Stoker, 14318 Harrison Street, 555-5973."

"_And the letter was addressed to you?_"

"Yeah, to me and the other person living at this address."

"_Their name?_"

"John Gage. And, actually, he filed a report with another deputy farther north this morning, when all four of his tires were slashed overnight at his place of work."

"_Will he be available as well?_"

"Yes. Sorry to bug you with this; it seems ridiculous, but—"

"_Not at all_," said the deputy. "_You're right to report it, especially since it may be part of a pattern. Does Mr., uh, Gage have a copy yet of the report he filed this morning?_"

"No, but he has the name of the deputy who took the report, and a case number."

"_All right. We'll have someone out this afternoon._"

"Thanks a lot," said Stoker. "We appreciate it."

He hung up the phone, and went out to the kitchen, where Chet and Johnny were drying dishes. "Okay," he announced, "they're sending a deputy by in an hour or two to take a report. They said it was a good idea to report it. Very polite. I didn't feel like I was putting them out at all. It was kind of like, I dunno, when someone would call the fire station to get us to inspect their fireplace or something."

"Huh," said Johnny. "I guess that's about how it would be. Something little to us, but big to the person who called, and we take care of it, and they're happy." He dried a plate and put it in the cabinet. "Huh," he repeated.

"Yep," said Mike. "Maybe it won't be a big deal." He picked up the box that Chet had brought the six-packs in, and set it on the table. He surreptitiously palmed a dozen or so balloons as he did so.

"Listen, guys," he said, "I'm just gonna take care of a couple of things in the yard while you finish up here. You guys wanna haul the cooler out when you come out?"

"Sure," said Chet.

Mike snickered to himself as he headed straight for the spigot on the side of the house, and filled and tied the balloons he'd snagged. He hefted one in his hand and grinned wickedly—perfect. It was heavy and cold, and just waiting to explode onto an unsuspecting target. He found a perfectly sized plastic bin in the garage, loaded his ammo into it, and hid it behind a shrub. He puttered around the yard a bit, just in case the other two were watching, and then returned indoors.

Chet and Johnny were just finishing with the kitchen cleanup, and were getting ready to drag the cooler out to the deck. The bag of balloons was sitting on the top of the cooler.

"You sure you want to run around outside like a bunch of kids?" Mike asked. "It's about a hundred degrees out."

"Yeah, well a coupla water bombs will cool us all off real good," said Chet. "Plus, if we get heat stroke or something we have two solutions: a paramedic, and central AC."

"Good points," said Mike. "Spigot's on the side of the house. Let's be juvenile." He cracked another beer open, set it on the deck, and grabbed a couple of balloons.

Chet shoved past him, beating him to the tap. He quickly filled a balloon, and ran around to the back of the yard. "I'll let you guys fill one up too—only fair, since I practiced yesterday with a bunch of ten-year-olds."

Mike and Johnny each filled a balloon.

"I feel ridiculous," said Mike, but he didn't hesitate to hurl his balloon at Chet, hitting him squarely in the chest.

"Oh, he shoots, he scores!" yelled Johnny. He dashed across the yard, and lobbed his balloon at Chet, just as Chet launched his balloon at the former target of all his water bombs. Johnny's balloon burst right at Chet's heels, splashing him up the back, at nearly the same time as Johnny found himself drenched by Chet's well-aimed missile.

"And Stoker, in the corner, is still dry!" shouted Chet, racing towards the spigot. He showed off the previous day's practice, rapidly filling and tying another balloon, just before Johnny leapt off the deck and landed next to the faucet.

Mike huddled in the corner near the completely defensible position he'd established with his stash of ammo. He ducked behind the shrub, and quietly plucked a water bomb out of the bin. As he stood up from behind his herbaceous fortress, a blue balloon, not quite full enough to burst, bounced off his shoulder and landed at his feet. He hurled it straight back at Chet, missing by inches but catching him in the splash zone very effectively, and threw Chet's misfire right at Johnny, soaking him as he emerged from the faucet area with a hot pink bomb.

Johnny shook water out of his hair, and hurled his pink bomb unhesitatingly at Mike. He didn't miss.

"Oh, shit!" Mike spluttered and laughed as Johnny's bomb caught him right on the chin. He grabbed a lime green globe from his stash, and caught Johnny smack on the rear.

"Oooh, Gage, your partner's cheating! He's got a stash!"

Mike's stash quickly became depleted as Chet and Johnny predictably ganged up on him, soaking him from head to toe. Once his stash was gone, he and Johnny ganged up on Chet for a while, giving him some payback for six years of water bombs and other pranks that he'd perpetrated on Johnny. For the next twenty minutes, the three men frolicked like children, taking turns teaming up on each other, nobody caring how soaked they were getting.

Johnny confiscated Mike's ammo bin, and filled it with water, dumping it from the deck right onto Chet's head as Chet filled a pair of bombs at the faucet. Chet pelted Johnny with one of his two bombs, a wicked underhand shot that passed right between the rails of the deck. Mike was his next target, but Chet's missile sailed right over Mike's head, as Stoker slid in the sopping wet grass and crashed into one of the posts supporting the deck, with a wet crunching sound that alarmed Johnny deeply, even before Mike's yell.

"Time out, Chet! Mike's down!" Johnny shouted.

He hurried down the steps of the deck to see what the damage was. Mike was lying half under the deck, clutching his right knee, and already panting through clenched teeth.

"Mike? Lemme see, babe. C'mon, you gotta let go." Johnny was worried to see that Mike wasn't actually holding his knee, but the bottom of his thigh, just below where the long bone had been broken a year and a half before. "Chet, run in the bathroom and get a couple towels from the closet, will ya?"

Chet didn't hesitate, and trotted right into the house.

"Something's fucked up, Johnny. Shit, oh shit oh shit, not again!" Stoker forced his words out from between his teeth, as Johnny gently pried Mike's fingers away from the injured leg.

"I know, okay, take it easy," Johnny said, as he gently felt the long bone for fractures. "Let me know if I hit something bad." He started above the painful area, and worked his way down. Mike didn't say anything until Johnny got to the place where he could clearly feel the heads of the two screws that held the metal rod in place inside his femur.

"Fuck-that's-it-right-there," he gritted out. "It's the screws, isn't it?"

"I don't know, Mike—it seems like it might be, but I don't know how to tell. I don't feel any obvious fractures, though, which is good."

Chet returned with several towels, just in time, as Mike was starting to shiver. Johnny started drying Mike off.

"All right, Mike; we gotta get you inside. I don't want you to put any weight on this leg, all right? Chet and I are gonna get you in the front door—only two stairs that way. Chet, you go in and make sure the front is unlocked, 'cause I don't think it is."

Chet nodded and headed back into the house.

"Okay, Mike, I'm gonna pull you out from under the deck, here. Don't help, all right? Just let me do it." Johnny was relieved that moving Mike didn't seem to cause him additional pain—that was a good sign that perhaps the bone was not fractured.

Once they were out from under the deck, Johnny could see the injured area better. "Can you bend your knee?" he asked. "Stop if it hurts too much, but try."

"Okay." Mike experimentally flexed his knee ever so slightly. "Yeah," he said shakily, "I can move it. It hurts like a sonofabitch right where the screws are, but moving it doesn't make it a lot worse."

"All right," said Johnny. "That's good—but let's get you inside and get some ice on there, all right?"

Chet emerged through the side gate to the yard, propping the gate open with a brick. "How bad are you busted up, Stoker?" he asked eloquently.

"Not as bad as I thought at first," Mike replied. "But something's not right."

"Okay, Mike," said Johnny, "I don't see a point in splinting, because I really don't think it's broken, and moving it doesn't make it worse, right?" Mike nodded. "No weight on it, though, all right? Chet, you get on that side, and we'll do up after three. One, two, three, up!" They hauled Mike to his feet, and he hopped through the side gate and up to the front door, supported on either side.

"This is ridiculous," Mike said, as he entered the house.

"The fact that you can say that makes me feel a lot less worried," said Johnny. "Five minutes ago I was sure we were heading straight for Rampart. Chet, we're gonna get him to the bedroom first, so he can get dry clothes. By the way, need a set for yourself?"

Chet shook his head. "Planned ahead; got a spare outfit in the car, 'cause I figured I'd need it. I'll run and grab it while you guys are changing."

Chet and Johnny sat Mike on the edge of the bed, and Chet left the room, closing the door behind him.

"This is turning out to be an extremely shitty day," said Mike, as he assisted in divesting himself of his sodden clothing. Johnny plucked dry underwear, shorts, and t-shirt from Mike's bureau, and set them beside Mike on the bed, then swiftly changed himself into a dry outfit as well.

"I think this is my fourth shirt today," Johnny commented.

Mike was just about dressed. Johnny helped him balance as he maneuvered the rest of his dry clothing into place. "Shitty, shitty day," Mike repeated.

"Yeah, well, at least eleven a.m. to one p.m. was pretty damned un-shitty," Johnny commented.

"Mm, good point," Mike admitted, as he hopped down the hall, supported by Johnny. He eased himself onto the sofa, and put his foot up on the coffee table. "Okay," he said, partly to himself and partly to Johnny, who was crouched next to him on the floor, "I guess this isn't as bad as I first thought. Sorry I freaked out on you," he said, taking Johnny's hand.

"No, I know how it is—when you break something real bad, every time you even strain it even a little after that you're sure it's busted again."

"Yeah. I was half expecting to look down and see it, um, looking like it did before."

Johnny felt the shudder that passed through Mike's body as he recalled the original accident in which his leg was broken so badly. He looked up at Mike, who had turned an alarming greyish shade. Johnny got up on his sofa so he could reach better, and put their foreheads together, kissed him, and spoke to him gently. "Hey, none of that," he said softly. "You're not going back there, all right? Whatever this is, it's probably just a minor setback, right?" He slid his arm behind Mike's back, and was relieved to feel Mike lean into him, putting his head on Johnny's shoulder.

Mike took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Yeah. Okay. See, sorry—I did it again. Freaking out."

"You don't need to freak out," Johnny said into Mike's hair. "Whatever happens, we'll be okay."

~!~!~!~!~

Chet felt terrible. He'd meant the water balloon fight to be a ridiculously fun, childish way to beat the Southern California heat, and had been extra glad to be able to get Johnny's and Mike's minds off what had happened to them in the past couple of days. But now it seemed that Mike had re-injured his leg, maybe badly, and Chet felt like it was all his fault. _Just what they needed_, he thought. _A little more crap to deal with_.

He sat on the edge of the bed in the spare room for a minute, trying to think what he could do to help salvage the afternoon. He thought he should probably just go—unless they still wanted his company for some reason. He put his sodden clothes in the plastic bag he'd brought the dry ones in, and left the guest room.

Chet stopped in his tracks when he reached the living room. Johnny and Mike were on the couch, with Johnny wrapped around Mike like an octopus, and Mike had his face buried in Johnny's chest and was clutching his shirt. Chet wasn't shocked—he couldn't have cared less that both people tangled together on the couch were men—but he was surprised, because even around close friends, Mike and Johnny had a habit of keeping their distance from each other physically. Chet imagined that when you had to always be on guard in public, it might be easiest just to keep all physical affection private, so no habits would slip out when you didn't mean them to.

"Um, anything you guys need?" he asked tentatively.

"Oh, yeah—I meant to get some ice on that knee," Johnny said, starting to disengage so he could get up.

Chet waved his hand in a 'stay put' gesture. "I'll get it—least I can do, since this is all my fault."

"Uh, Chet?" Mike said. "That's ridiculous. We were all having fun, and I skidded in the grass, and that's all."

"But—"

"Look, don't make me get irritated, all right?" Mike said. "Enough about anything being anyone's fault. If it'll make you feel better, though, you could get the bag of frozen peas with all the duct tape on it, from the bottom shelf of the freezer. That's our household ice pack."

Chet retrieved the bag, wrapped it in a kitchen towel, and handed it to Mike, who mashed it up against the side of his leg just above his knee.

"It's not broken or anything, is it?" Chet asked nervously.

"Nah, but I may have a screw loose," Mike joked, feeling better, and trying to relieve some tension. "Seriously, I don't think it's that bad. Let's just, I don't know, drink beer and play cards, or something stupid like that.

The doorbell rang. Out the bay window, a sheriff's car was visible parked in front of the house. "I'll get it," said Johnny, actually disengaging and standing up this time.

"I should go, right?" said Chet.

"Sit! Stay!" said Mike. "Geez, Kelly—this'll take five minutes, probably, and then we can do something less awkward and more interesting than worrying about loose screws and hate mail."

~!~!~!~!~

Johnny answered the door. A short, slim dark-haired man in a sheriff's deputy uniform stood on the doorstep.

"I'm Deputy Price—I believe we spoke earlier about a threatening letter you received? Sorry it took so long to get out here; tempers flare in this weather."

"Oh, hi. John Gage," said Johnny, shaking hands with the deputy. "You talked to Mike—he's inside. Come on in." He showed the officer to the living room.

"Mr. Stoker?" Price looked back and forth between Chet and Mike.

"That's me, sorry I'm not getting up, just had a little spill in the yard. Uh, Johnny, you wanna get that crap letter? I put it on the desk." He looked up to Price. "Have a seat, officer."

Price sat in the side chair that hardly ever got used, as Johnny returned with the letter and its envelope. and handed them to the deputy.

"I gotta tell you, officer, between this and the tires, we're not so sittin' so comfy right now," Johnny said.

Price scanned the letter, and placed it and the envelope into a plastic bag. "I'm going to need to hang onto this—it's pretty clearly a threat. Anything else unusual happen lately that might be related?" he asked, getting out a small notebook.

"Well," Mike said reluctantly, "what would you say about, uh, vandalism to fire department property?"

"First," said the deputy, "let's clear something up. You and Mr. Gage, you're both with the county fire department?"

"Yeah," said Mike. "I'm with the Arson/Fire Investigation Unit, and Johnny's a captain at a station up north of Santa Clarita."

"All right—I can take your report on the letter, and link it to the report on the tires. I can add what you have to say about damage to department property if you feel it's relevant, but investigation of that damage would be an internal matter."

"Yeah, I figured," Mike said. "Lemme start at the beginning—that was the department property. Basically, my office door—at department HQ—was vandalized sometime early Friday morning. To be honest, I didn't report it—I don't really want to make waves. But it seems relevant now, so it should probably be in your report."

"Okay—what was the specific nature of the vandalism?" the officer asked, while writing on his notepad.

"Um, somebody painted 'faggot' across the door," Mike said.

To Mike's relief, the officer didn't bat an eye, but just continued writing.

"And I should add," said Mike, "the building is locked from eight in the evening until 0730, which is when I came in. The paint was still wet, but not fresh."

"Uh-huh. And Mr. Gage, I know this is all in the report you filed earlier," said Price, "but when were your tires slashed?"

"Some time between 0730 on Friday morning and 0820 this morning."

"And where was the vehicle located during that time?"

"In the parking area at Station 93."

"And the letter," Price continued. "When did it arrive?"

"In today's mail," said Mike.

Price inspected the envelope. "Postmarked the day before yesterday, in the 90063 zip code."

Johnny and Mike looked at each other—they hadn't noticed that.

"That's where department HQ is located, actually," said Mike.

"Anything else you would like to add?" Price asked, looking up for the first time.

"Yeah," Johnny spoke up. "My name is on the envelope, but I don't ever give out this address, anywhere, except to friends. I have a post office box that I use for everything. None of my paperwork at the department—or anywhere else—lists this address."

"What about you, Mr. Stoker?"

"What, you mean the address? Yeah, it's my address of record everywhere."

"And who knows where you actually live, Mr. Gage?"

Johnny sighed. "It's not exactly a well-kept secret that Mike and I are together. Nobody ever says anything to us, but plenty of people know, and I'm sure plenty of people don't like it."

"Okay. And, Mr. Gage, do you have the case number from the report you filed this morning?"

"Yep." Johnny fished his wallet out of his pocket, pulled out the card Fred White had given him, and handed it to Price.

Price copied down the information on the card and returned it to Johnny. He closed his notebook, and looked up at Johnny and Mike. "Okay, gentlemen. What you have here is a concerning pattern. It's a pattern, because you've each been targeted twice—once separately, and once together. It's concerning because of the phrase 'watch your backs' in the letter you got today."

"So, uh, what do we do?" asked Johnny.

"I would recommend you make extra sure your doors and windows are locked, whether or not you're home. I see you have a garage—park your vehicles in them, especially at night. Are you on good terms with your neighbors?" Price asked. "Particularly anyone who might be home while you're not?"

"Yeah, most of 'em," said Johnny. "Say, Mrs. Daniels across the street is retired, and we help her out with stuff all the time—maybe she could, I dunno, keep an extra eye on the place?"

"Excellent idea—you don't want your neighbors to expect trouble, but on the other hand, a watchful eye can be useful," Price said. "On the LASD end, I hate to tell you this, but there's not much we can do at this point, other than take your report and link it with the one you made this morning with Deputy White. We can send a car past here every so often, but that's really the best we can offer."

"We understand that," said Mike. "We just thought it was important to at least make the report."

"It is. And, if something else does happen, I'm sure you know to let us know right away—even if it's so small as to seem insignificant."

"We will," said Mike, as Price stood up. "Sorry I'm still not getting up. I think I have a screw loose in my leg, here."

"A screw loose?" Price peered at Mike's knee.

"Yeah—I have a rod this long—" Mike held his hands about 18 inches apart— "inside my thigh bone, and I think maybe I busted one of the screws that holds it in."

Price couldn't hold back a shudder. "You oughta get that looked at," he said.

Johnny showed him to the door. "Thanks for your time," he said. "No offense, but I hope we don't see you again."

Price laughed. "And you can bet that everyone whose house _you_ go to on the job thinks that triple, pal."

Johnny let the deputy out, and returned to the living room. "Well, that's done. And he's right, you know," he added.

"Right about what in particular?" Mike asked.

"You _should_ get that looked at, is what he means, you doofus," said Chet.

"I know, I know," Mike said. "But not now, okay?"

"First thing tomorrow, then? Your choice, Henry Mayo or Rampart, but first thing tomorrow, sharp. And crutches till then."

"Okay, fine, it's a deal," Mike said despondently. "Rampart first thing in the morning. But for now—I just don't even want to think about, see, do, hear, or even _smell_ anything unpleasant, all right?"

"Fine," said Chet. "I'll make sure I go in the other room if I fart." He whipped out a deck of cards. "Gin Rummy and beer, or Go Fish and beer?"

**TBC**


	24. Unscrewed

**Chapter 24: Unscrewed**

Mike just plain couldn't sleep. When he was still, he had an unnerving, creeping feeling, like he needed to move or else. But when he tried to toss and turn, it caused more pain than it did relief. He found he almost missed the hum of the window AC unit, because he kept hearing—or imagining he was hearing—all manner of little sounds that he couldn't identify, and each one made him progressively more nervous. He sighed heavily, and flopped his head down heavily on the pillow.

"s matter?" Johnny mumbled, not even half awake.

"Nothing," Mike lied. "Go back to sleep." As long as he'd already partially woken Johnny, he figured he could at least try to roll over without having to worry about waking his bedmate.

"Ow!" Mike growled, as his attempt to get more comfortable backfired. "Fucking ow! All right, that's it." He started to sit up, but was pulled back down by a smooth, warm arm.

"Talk," said Johnny. "'m awake anyhow. Talk."

Mike threw himself down on his pillow, sat up again, punched the pillow into a firm ball, and lay down on it again. Once he was still, Johnny rolled over on his side and draped a leg over Mike's good left leg, and an arm over his upper body, resting his hand right in the middle of Mike's chest. Mike sighed and covered Johnny's hand with his own.

"Okay," he said. "I'm worried."

"I know. Keep goin'."

"I don't wanna deal with this leg again. It was just starting to feel really normal again, just in the last few months, and now this. Rationally, I know the bone's healed. But even if all I did was to fuck up the screws, I _really_ don't want to deal with whatever _that_ means." He paused, and Johnny squeezed his hand to show he was still listening. "I was just beginning to be able to forget about the fact that I'm full of metal, and just be glad I could walk around normally and without pain. But all afternoon, what I've been thinking is, and this is gonna sound really dumb, but what if the hardware has to come out? Will I be, I don't know, really breakable or something, without all that metal?"

"Don't think so, even if they do take it out," Johnny said, more awake now. "Don't be mad, but I read up on the whole business of getting the hardware out after you decided you weren't going back to active duty—not to try to convince you of anything. I just wanted to know, ya know? It sounds like they do take the hardware out sometimes, for various reasons, but it's not a huge operation, and there's not a huge recovery. And healed bones are supposedly stronger than before in the spot where they broke."

"Oh," said Mike. "Huh."

Johnny nuzzled into his shoulder. "What else?" he asked.

"Well, our enemy. He's got me really worried about what he's gonna get up to next," Mike admitted. "I mean, 'watch your backs?' That bugs me."

"Yeah. Me too."

"I mean, damn it, Johnny—the fire service is about saving lives and protecting property, and this bastard is threatening lives, or at least safety, and destroying property. What kind of firefighter would let his personal opinion of the way somebody's living their life turn around the most important parts of why we do our jobs?"

"The kind who's gone off the deep end, babe. And that's why I'm worried too."

"Oh, god," Mike moaned, almost pitifully, "you're worried too? That's great—that's just _great_. I mean, _I'm_ the one who's supposed to worry, and _you're_ the one who's supposed to tell me that everything is fine, or everything's _going_ to be fine, and then I'd believe you, and then I could get to _sleep_ at least, but if you're worried, then—" Mike cut himself off as he was suddenly blinded by the bedside light that Johnny flicked on.

"Mike. Stop," Johnny said quietly. "Just … look. I can't promise you this nut isn't gonna do something worse. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's not done with us. But you know what? If we let him fuck with our heads when he's not actually doing anything, then he wins, and we lose."

"Yeah, I know. But I can't stop the brain train, can't get to sleep."

Johnny had figured out a while ago that he should never, ever ask Mike a rhetorical question such as "What's the worst that could happen?" because Mike always had an answer. His answers never failed to out-bad anything Johnny had thought of, and were always scarily possible. Mike was an expert at the "what-if" game, and a disaster at trying not to think about something that was bothering him, especially when he was trying to get to sleep. But Johnny had also figured out, kind of by accident, that the best way to get Mike to settle down was to get Mike wrapped around him—the opposite of how they often fell asleep.

"C'mere," Johnny said, turning off the light again. He rolled so his back was to Mike, and pulled Mike's far arm over himself. Mike rolled to his non-sore left side, and pulled Johnny in close to him. "You got me?" Johnny asked.

"I got you," Mike said. "I've always got you," he said into the back of Johnny's neck.

"Yeah, you do. And I've always got you," Johnny said, clutching Mike's arm to his chest. "Now hang on to me, and you'll get to sleep, and I'll get to sleep, and nothing will seem as bad in the morning. Right?"

"Yeah."

~!~!~!~!~

Johnny wasn't _quite_ correct. Most of their worries didn't seem as bad in the morning, but overnight, Mike's knee had swelled considerably, and was stiffer than it had been, so Johnny called in to Rampart to let them know he was bringing Mike in, and that he would probably need to see an orthopedist.

"Dr. Early is here this morning—I'll let him know you're coming in, and I'll pull Mike's chart and page the orthopedist on call as well—hopefully that should keep the wait time down," said Betty, a senior nurse who was often in charge of the ER on Dixie's days off. "It's Sunday morning, so it shouldn't be too bad in any case. It's pretty quiet around here right now, and no, I don't believe that will jinx the day."

"Thanks, Betty," laughed Johnny. "We'll be there in an hour or so."

As Johnny hung up the phone, Mike appeared from the bedroom, hobbling along on the hated crutches that he thought he'd put away for good some time ago. "What's the scoop?" Mike asked as he got out a box of cereal and poured some into a bowl.

"Just smoothing the way," Johnny said, pouring himself some cereal as well. "Dr. Early is in today—you'll like him."

"He's the older guy, right?"

"Yep. Always totally calm. Back in the day, I kept wondering when he was gonna finally let it all out in one big explosion, but I finally came to the conclusion that he wasn't bottling stuff up—it just rolls right off him," said Johnny, "like water off a duck." He shook his head. "I'll tell ya, Mike—I didn't even know there were really people like that out there. But he's living proof."

"Seems like the water off the duck thing would be a handy personality trait, in the ER world," Mike said.

"That's for sure." Johnny worked at his cereal, and sipped his coffee. "Actually, Len Sterling reminds me of Dr. Early sometimes. They both have this calm thing I just don't get."

Mike finished his cereal, and stuck both crutches under one arm so he could carry his bowl over to the sink to wash it. "All right, babe; whenever you're done, let's go get this over with."

"'kay." Johnny finished up, washed his bowl and spoon, and grabbed the keys to the truck.

In the light Sunday-morning traffic, it took them only forty-five minutes to get to Rampart. Johnny dropped Mike off at the main entrance and then parked the pickup in the visitors' lot. Mike waited for him at the door, and they went in together, through the front entrance, like regular people.

"Hi, Betty," Johnny said, as they reached the nurses' station. "You ready for us?" There were several familiar faces there, and Johnny greeted them politely but didn't stop to chat.

"Sure—Dr. Early will meet you in Treatment 1. Mr. Stoker, come this way, please."

They entered the treatment room and Mike let Johnny help him up to the gurney. Betty left to go find Dr. Early, and to round up a portable x-ray machine.

"I still feel ridiculous," Mike said. "I just hope we can keep the water balloons out of the story."

The door swung open, and Joe Early came in. "Well, well, well! John Gage, you're a sight for sore eyes! What's it been—seven or eight months, at least." Early turned to Mike. "And you must be Mike Stoker," said Dr. Early.

"Yep," said Mike. "Nice to meet you."

"How's the captaining business up in the north country?" Early asked.

"Oh, it's pretty fair," Johnny said, "but I sure do miss comin' down here all the time. You guys are the best. Don't get me wrong—Henry Mayo has a fine staff, fine people—but they're not old friends."

"Well, John, I'm not so sure how I feel about the 'old' part, but 'friends' I'll keep." Early looked over at Mike. "So, Mr. Stoker, what brings you in today? I read your history—that's quite a story."

"Well, Doc, I slipped in some wet grass yesterday afternoon, and ran into one of the posts of our deck. Something above my knee kind of went. It made sort of a twangy sound—not a pop or a snap, but more like a twang. And now it's real sore right by the two screws above my knee. Moving hurts a bit, but what really kills is touching that spot at all."

"Can you put weight on it without excessive pain?"

"Uh, well, Johnny kinda wouldn't let me. So I don't know."

"Well," said Early, "that was probably wise. But I have to tell you, it would've been even wiser to come in as soon as it happened."

"Uh, Doc, that kinda wasn't an option," said Johnny. "It just, well, wasn't."

"Okay." Dr. Early accepted Johnny's evasion, and moved along. "Let's get some pictures, first of all, and we'll compare to your most recent x-rays and see what's going on in there."

Right on cue, a tech wheeled in the portable x-ray unit. While Dr. Early ordered various views of the knee and femur, the tech's eyes kept flicking back to Johnny, as if he recognized him but couldn't quite place him.

"Are you listening, Ted?" Dr. Early asked the tech.

"Sure, Doc." He tore his eyes away from Johnny, frowning slightly, and repeated Dr. Early's instructions.

Early and Johnny left the room, to avoid unnecessary radiation exposure, and waited in the hall.

"Mike's, uh, real worried, Doc."

"Well, that's understandable—from what his medical records looked like, he must have had quite a bad time of it with his original injuries, and the thought of having to go through anything similar again would certainly be distressing."

"Yeah."

"Worst case scenario would be having to get all the hardware removed, but the recovery from that operation is nothing like the recovery from the original repair. Not to mention, it would be the _only_ thing he'd be recovering from—last time around, he had trauma to multiple systems, and was in pretty bad shape even aside from the leg."

Johnny paled. "Yeah. B'lieve me, Doc, I remember."

Early saw Johnny's expression, and determined this was the time to change the subject to something more pleasant.

"So, John—on a related note—how's married life agreeing with you?"

Johnny raised his eyebrows. "Well, Doc, most people don't think to put it quite that way, but thanks. It's agreeing real, real well."

Dr. Early shook his head. "If there had been a betting pool on who of you, me, and Kel Brackett would be the least likely to ever settle down, I might just possibly have picked you."

Johnny chuckled. "Believe me, Doc; I was as surprised as anyone. 'Cause that contest? I mighta picked me, too."

"Well, I know a lot of us were surprised when you suddenly stopped trying to date the new nurses, and then even more surprised when you disappeared for a month and all Roy would say to most people was that you had a friend who was in trouble. But then all became clear when you returned as the guest of one of our rehab patients."

Johnny looked at the floor, and picked at a fingernail. "Say, Doc. Anyone around here ever expressed any, well, ugly feelings about, uh …"

"The fact that you settled down with a man?" Early completed for him quietly.

Johnny nodded, keeping his head down.

"I'll be honest—there was certainly some talk, given that hospitals are about the worst rumor mills in the world, but nothing that I would classify as truly ugly." Early tilted his head. "Why, John? Is someone giving you trouble?"

"Yeah, but—aw, forget I said anything, all right?"

"All right, John. But I have a sympathetic ear if you ever need it."

"Thanks, Doc. The more the better."

At that moment, the x-ray tech emerged from the room, pushing the portable x-ray machine. "I'll just go take those down to get developed, Doc, and they'll page you when they're done." He was talking to Early, but his eyes again couldn't help darting towards Johnny.

"Thanks, Ted," Early said to the tech.

As Dr. Early swung the treatment room door open, Johnny turned on instinct to look behind himself. Ted was looking at him with an almost vicious glint in his eye—or so Johnny thought. He turned away again and shuddered. _Gettin' paranoid, Gage. Don't let 'im win. That Ted's probably just havin' a crummy day._

Mike looked disgruntled when Johnny and Early returned to the room.

"What's wrong, Mike?" Early asked.

"Oh, I know he's just a tech, but his bedside manner could've been better. I mean, I've had this leg x-rayed plenty of times—_more_ than plenty—but the techs always at least help me a little with how they want my leg positioned on the film. This guy was all 'No, not like that!' and 'Can't you just do it yourself?' He finally just turned my knee the way he wanted it, none too gently either, and, well, kind of looked at me in a weird way after. Creepy."

"I'll have a word with him, Mike. Sorry about that—I don't know what could've gotten into him. He's usually perfectly charming," Early said, frowning. "Well, come on, you two. Let's have a cup of coffee while those films develop—cafeteria coffee, not lounge coffee, and it's my treat."

"All right, you're on, Doc!" said Johnny. "Man, I can't remember the last time I was at Rampart's cafeteria."

Dr. Early laughed. "Well, I think it's fair to say that you were always one of their best customers, John. Actually, why don't you two wait in my office, and I'll bring the coffees up—you shouldn't be hobbling around any more than is absolutely necessary."

"Nah, I'm an expert on these things—like riding a bicycle," Mike said, grabbing his crutches. "Plus I don't want to deprive Gage here of a visit to an old haunt."

"All right," laughed Early, "have it your way. It's just down the hall, anyhow."

They left the treatment room, and made their way down the corridor to the cafeteria. The place was crowded—it seemed that everyone was having a coffee break at once. But Mike was able to claim a table, while Johnny and Joe made their way through the line, and returned to the table.

"Thanks," said Mike, as Johnny set a coffee cup in front of him.

Johnny scanned the cafeteria for familiar faces. He did see one person he definitely recognized, but not somebody he'd go chat with for old time's sake. Sherry, a petite blonde nurse from the orthopedics floor, was the last woman Johnny had dated. As was Johnny's pattern, they'd had several dates, and then just when things seemed to him to be picking up, she'd dumped him. She was sitting facing towards Johnny's table. The man she was sitting with had his back to Johnny's group, and was wearing scrubs, just like half the rest of the people in the cafeteria.

_Oh, crap. I'll just keep my head down_, he thought, _and if she sees me and acknowledges me I'll just wave or something._

Sherry didn't seem to notice him, luckily. But when she and her scrubs-clad break partner rose to leave, Johnny recognized her companion as well.

Ted, the x-ray technician.

_Mystery solved_, Johnny thought. He ducked his head down slightly and shaded his face with his hand as the couple left. Mike noticed Johnny's evasive maneuvers, looked towards the departing couple, and gave Johnny a questioning glance. Johnny shook his head, and mouthed "later."

Dr. Early's pager chose that moment to beep. "Well, gentlemen, that will be some x-rays, hot off the presses. Shall we continue our coffee in my office?"

"Sure, Doc," Johnny said. He took Mike's cup, and they all headed back to the end of the corridor where Dr. Early's office was. The x-rays were waiting on a clip on his door.

"Come on in, fellows."

Dr. Early put the first two x-rays—both of the upper femur and hip, including where the fracture was—up on the light box and inspected them briefly. "Proximal screws—the ones up by your hip—they look fine. Femur itself looks totally healed—we're what, eighteen months post-op?"

Mike nodded. "That's about right." He studied the x-rays. "Damn. I was just starting to forget about all that metal in me."

Dr. Early put the next two views up on the light boxes—the front and side views of the lower femur and knee. He studied them for longer than he'd studied the previous set. Johnny noticed that Mike's hands were clenched on the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white. He reached out and covered one of Mike's hands with his own. Mike jumped at first, but then relaxed his grip slightly.

"All right," said Dr. Early. "It looks like your instincts were right—something's going on down by the lower screws. I had a word with Dr. Hansen, the orthopedist on call, before you arrived, and explained your history and the current problem. I think it would be best if he had a look at you and your x-rays, because this sort of thing is really outside my area of expertise." Dr. Early looked at Mike's ashen expression. "Please try not to worry too much—even if he thinks it's necessary to remove all the hardware, that's a relatively minor surgery, and you could be up and about the next day."

"Okay," said Mike, as he relaxed his grip on the armrests a little more, and regained some color in his face. "I'll try. But not worrying? It's not my strong suit."

"In that case, let's get this ball rolling as soon as possible," said Dr. Early. He picked up his phone, and dialed Dr. Hansen's extension.

"Rob? Joe Early. The patient I spoke to you about is here. I have his x-rays, and it certainly looks like one of the distal screws has failed in some way."

Dr. Early listened to the reply.

"Terrific—we'll see you in Treatment 1."

He hung up the phone. "Dr. Hansen will be right down. And if you'll pardon me, I have to get back to some unfortunate paperwork that's been accumulating." He placed the x-rays back in their envelope, and handed the packet to Mike.

Johnny held up a finger. "One thing, Doc."

"Sure, Johnny, what is it?"

"I, uh, think I may have an answer for you about why that x-ray tech was so surly this morning."

Dr. Early raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really?"

"Uh, okay, so, this is kinda embarrassing." Johnny cleared his throat. "If the nurse he was sitting with in the cafeteria is his girlfriend, I think it's, uh, my fault."

"She better be his fiancée," said Mike, "or the guy who gave her that ring wouldn't be too happy about their coffee break."

Johnny shook his head. "Trust you to notice that," he said.

"Well, an eye for detail goes with my job," said Mike, "but go on—I'm dying to know how that guy's absurdly bad behavior can possibly be all your fault."

"_Anyhow_," Johnny continued, "the thing is, well, I kinda dated Sherry for a while. She was the one that dumped me—not like that was all that unusual. And she was still friendly after she dumped me. But the thing is—when I was here visiting Mikey a lot, when he was up in rehab, she started giving me the really cold shoulder." He shivered. "Like, arctic. Like I'd run the other way if I saw her coming."

"So the way I figure is, she got wind of you and me," Johnny said, gesturing back and forth between himself and Mike, "and got majorly freaked out. By, I guess, being attractive to a guy who also likes men," he finished quietly, "which I guess might be kind of a downer if you look at it the wrong way."

"Hm," said Dr. Early. "Regardless of the reason for Ted's behavior, I'll certainly be having a chat with him."

"Doc, wait a sec," Johnny said quickly. "Honest, I don't wanna make trouble—hell, I might even be defending him a little, which is kinda dumb, I guess—so, I dunno, could you maybe drop it? Because if he is pissed for the reason I think he is, and you say anything to him, it could just make things worse for us. You know?"

Dr. Early looked back and forth between Mike and Johnny. "Worse for you? I don't understand."

Johnny sighed. "Look. Some anonymous jerk has been giving us a hard time. You know—poison pen, slashing tires—that sort of thing."

"I see," Dr. Early said, frowning. "And you're concerned that if I say anything to Ted, I might be rocking a boat."

"Yeah," said Johnny. "That's kinda somethin' we're tryin' to avoid right now."

Dr. Early's frown deepened. "I'll respect your wishes, if that's what you both want—" Mike and Johnny both nodded— "but I have to say, it concerns me that an employee of the hospital would behave inappropriately towards any patient, for any reason."

"I see your point," said Mike, "but we're really in a mess right now, Doc."

"All right. I'll tell you what—I have a file in my desk where I keep notes on things that aren't really offenses, but that could become part of a pattern. I'll write myself a note in there, and leave it at that."

Mike and Johnny looked at each other, and then nodded. "Thanks, Doc," said Johnny.

"And as for the rest of your troubles—well, I certainly hope they track down whoever is responsible for the harassment you've been experiencing. That's extremely unpleasant news," said Dr. Early.

"You're not kidding," said Johnny. "But thanks."

"And now," said Dr. Early, "let's get you to Dr. Hansen's capable hands, Mike. It was nice to finally meet you, and I hope everything turns out all right." He stood up to usher them down to the treatment room, but Johnny stopped him.

"Oh, that's all right, Doc—I think I remember the way," said Johnny. "It was real nice to see you, and thanks a lot for everything."

"Likewise, Johnny—I know everyone around here was sorry to see you go when you took the captaincy. Roy, too. The two of you kind of were an institution around here."

"Yeah, well, onwards and upwards, right?" Johnny waved on his way out. "See ya, Doc—thanks again."

"Thanks," Mike echoed.

Dr. Hansen met them in Treatment 1. He looked at the x-rays, and got straight to the point. "This screw here—the one closest to your knee—it's come partially out. You've probably had a low-grade infection brewing in there for a while, which can cause the bone to thin around the screw. Whatever happened yesterday probably gave it just enough of a hit to knock it out a bit."

Mike got pale again. "So now what?"

"Oh, we take it out, for sure, and start you on a course of antibiotics, to get rid of any infection."

Mike's expression faded from gray to green, and Johnny moved closer to the exam table Mike was sitting on.

Dr. Hansen continued, not having noticed his patient's distress. He turned to the x-rays again. "It's a very simple procedure—just a small incision—"

"Whoa, Doc!" Johnny called, as he caught Mike before he toppled forwards. "Time out—fainter."

"Oh dear," said Dr. Hansen. He took Mike's legs, and Johnny maneuvered Mike's upper body, and together they laid him out flat on the table.

"Sorry, should've warned you," said Johnny. "He doesn't do so well with blood and stuff."

"Good to know—removing the screw is usually done with just a local anesthetic, but maybe a little sedative might be a good idea, too."

"Well," said Johnny, "he won't like that, but we can't have him puking or passing out, either."

"Oh, shit," mumbled Mike. "Sorry," he said, trying to sit up.

Johnny stopped him with a hand to his chest. "Uh-uh, Stoker. You lie right there till the Doc's done talkin', okay?"

"Fine. Sorry, Doc," Mike repeated. "I, uh, don't handle blood and stuff so well."

"So I heard," Dr. Hansen said drily. "Don't worry about it—it happens."

"But go ahead, Doc. Removing the screw?" Mike asked shakily.

"Simple. All under local anesthesia—that's just numbing the area—and then a stitch or two, and you'll be on your feet again."

"That's it?" Mike asked.

"That's it," Hansen replied. "Unless you have more generalized problems with the hardware, we can just take out the one screw and leave it at that."

"Okay," said Mike. "When do we do it?"

"Well," said Dr. Hansen, "I don't want you putting weight on that leg until the screw is out, so sooner rather than later. I'm stuck here for the rest of the day anyhow, so as far as I'm concerned, let's do it right now."

"Now?" Mike squeaked.

"Or would you prefer to sleep on it?" Johnny asked, deadpan.

"No! I mean, okay, let's get it over with. But Doc, I have to warn you, I'll probably throw up."

"Mr. Stoker," Dr. Hansen said, "I think we'll all be happier if you have a teensy bit of something in your system to help you stay calm during the procedure."

"You're not gonna knock me out, are you? 'Cause I hate that."

"No, the idea isn't to put you under—look, it'll just be a touch of Valium, which will really just have the effect of helping you not worry about or think about what's going on."

"C'mon, Mike—it's the way to go," said Johnny. "We give it to people all the time when they're really freaked out—like just a couple days ago, Yang had a patient who really needed to be on high-flow oxygen, but was totally flipping out about the mask—he was claustrophobic, and kept ripping it off—and the docs had him give the guy some Valium, and whammo—he was fine the rest of the trip in."

Hansen looked at Johnny.

"Oh. Paramedic," Johnny explained. "Captain, now, but I do enough hours to keep up my certification." He looked back at Mike. "So whaddaya say, Mike? Get it over with?"

Mike blew out a breath. "Yeah. Yeah, can't really put it off, can I? Gotta be at work this week anyhow, and I'd rather not do it on crutches."

"Attaboy," said Johnny.

"Excellent choice, Mr. Stoker. Let me just call up to my office, just to make sure there's nothing I'm overlooking, and then I can just do it. The whole thing should only take forty-five minutes or so, and then you can go home."

"Great," said Mike, voice shaking.

"Great!" Johnny said, rubbing his hands together. "Can I watch?"

"Oh, God," said Mike, closing his eyes again and covering them with his hands.

~!~!~!~!~

True to his word, Hansen got the screw out in under three quarters of an hour—which in doctor time really meant forty-five minutes for the parts he personally was involved in, with half an hour prep time up front and an hour after that before Mike could leave Rampart. Mike left on the crutches, simply because since the anesthetic hadn't quite worn off, he couldn't feel anything, and thus didn't totally believe yet that it was safe to just plain walk on it.

"Well, that was easy," Mike said smoothly, as he got into the passenger's side of the truck. "Don't see why everyone made such a big deal over such a little thing. I mean really, Gage, that was a piece of cake. Nothin' to it. Hell, next time, you just bring some gear home and we'll take care of it in the kitchen or something."

Johnny rolled his eyes, knowing perfectly well that Mike was still mellowed out on Valium. "Sure, Mikey. Sure. C'mon, let's get you home."

"Oh, yeah—we should pick up the Rover today. That's easy too—I'll just drive you out there in the truck after lunch, and—"

Johnny burst out laughing. "If you think you're getting behind the wheel at all today, mister, you're off your rocker. Besides, I'm getting a ride in to the station with Peters tomorrow, and then Emerson's gonna drop me at the garage after shift to pick up the Rover. Okay?"

Mike looked languidly at Johnny. "Yeah, babe." He sighed. "Competence is soooo sexy." And with that, Mike laid his head back and fell asleep for the rest of the trip home.

~!~!~!~!~

"I can't believe you actually wanted to watch—and no, please don't tell me how interesting it was to see this and that, because I really don't want to know," Mike complained as Johnny unlocked the front door of the house.

"Guess that Valium's wearing off, huh?" Johnny asked.

Both answering machines' message indicators were flashing the digit "1" over and over, and their not-quite-twin beeps were discordantly competing for attention.

"You go sit down and put that knee up," said Johnny, "and I'll get those."

Johnny pressed the "play" button on his machine first. He waited as the tape rewound, and then began playing back the morning's messages.

The first message began with a crackle of static, as if from a radio between channels. The hiss continued, and a voice, distorted by the static but still intelligible began speaking.

"Well, Captain Gage. Isn't it handy to have your very own phone number, like a big boy? But we all know you live with the wife—isn't that right, fellas?" There were what sounded like cheers of agreement in the background, barely audible over the static. "It's bad enough that we've got cock-sucking men in the department at all, but a Captain? Now, that's disgraceful. So here's my suggestion to you, pretty boy in blue. Your next shift is tomorrow—call the chief and resign first thing, why dontcha. 'Cause if you show up for your next shift after that—well, let's just say things could get ugly. And dangerous. Oh—and by the way—we probably won't bust the wife up _too_ much; wouldn't be much of a challenge after what some intelligent motorist did for us already—but we can still make her life tricky." Click.

Johnny silently looked at Mike, whose head was in his hands. Johnny popped the tape out of the machine, retrieved a new tape from a drawer in the cabinet the machine sat on, and put the new tape in the machine. He sighed, and pressed the "play" button on Mike's machine, pretty sure what he was going to hear.

"Happy Sunday, Investigator Stoker!" a familiar voice proclaimed cheerfully, over the static Johnny expected to hear. "We assume you've gotten our first couple of messages to you and your pretty, pretty boyfriend. We've seen how you look at him—don't think we haven't. Yeah, he sure is pretty, ain't he. If you want him to stay that way, you'll just quietly pack up your nice comfy office and shove off. Oh, and Mickey Mouse? We sure hope you take our advice, because it's really a lot of work to be a home wrecker and a face breaker." Click.

Johnny silently repeated his routine with replacing the tape. He stood at the counter for a good thirty seconds, not saying anything, just trying to calm himself down. When his hands stopped shaking, he retrieved the duct-tape covered bag of peas from the freezer, plucked a kitchen towel from a drawer, turned the corner to the living room, and sat down next to Mike, who had his feet on the table and his hands over his face, fingers over his eyes, and thumbs pressed tightly over his ears.

He wrapped the bag in the towel, and rested it gently on Mike's knee, right over the bandage. He gently, gently peeled Mike's hands off his face, and took them both in his own. They sat together that way for a long, long time, not moving, not talking, not doing anything.

"What do we do now?" Mike asked, finally.

Johnny leaned his head back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. "I have no fucking idea."

**TBC**


	25. Connections

**Chapter 25: Connections**

Mike and Johnny sat on the couch, saying nothing, each lost in his own thoughts, until the bag of peas on Mike's knee was a soggy, sodden, room-temperature mess. Despite the duct tape that had nearly replaced the original plastic bag, there was green water dripping from a corner of the bag onto the tiled floor.

"I think it's time to retire our peas," said Johnny. "We can try corn next time; see if it holds up any better."

Mike didn't reply, as Johnny went into the kitchen and disposed of the dripping mess. He pulled the deli drawer out of the refrigerator, and without asking Mike what he wanted, just made one each of his and Mike's favorite sandwiches and took them out to the living room. He returned with a glass of water for Mike, and a glass of milk for himself.

"Just this once, let's eat our lunch on the couch," Johnny suggested.

"Fine," Mike said listlessly, as he took the plate Johnny handed him. "Thanks."

They ate their sandwiches with no conversation. Mike looked out the bay window onto the street. Johnny looked at Mike's knee—he thought the swelling already seemed to be going down. It might have been Johnny's imagination, but, he thought, imagining positive things was nice for a change.

Next, Johnny's eyes were drawn to the few pictures they kept on the side table. One of them was a copy of one of the photos on Mike's wall at work—the last official Station 51 A-Shift photo where they were all still together. Johnny looked at all the faces—Chet, who they'd just seen the previous day; Roy, who they saw at least monthly, either here or at the DeSotos' house; Marco, who Johnny hadn't seen since his last day at 51s; and Hank Stanley, who, along with Marco, still remained at Station 51.

"You know what we should do, Mike?" Johnny said suddenly, mouth full of food.

"What," Mike said tonelessly, not even commenting on Johnny's poor manners.

"We should call Cap'n Stanley."

Finally, Mike sat up taller on the couch. He put his sandwich plate down, and looked at Johnny. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. That's exactly what we should do."

Johnny put down his unfinished sandwich, picked up the phone, and dialed.

"_Hello, Stanley residence_," answered a deep voice.

"Hiya Cap, it's John Gage."

"_Captain Gage! Haven't heard a peep from you since the DeSoto's barbeque last month. How's everything? How's Mike?_"

"Uh, Cap, to be honest, everything's not so good," Johnny admitted right away. "Mike and I just got back from Rampart—he had to get one of the screws in his leg out all of a sudden—won't bore you with the details, but that's kind of a drag."

"_Uh-huh, I'll bet. Last time I saw you guys he seemed really good—first time I'd seen him walking totally normally since the accident._" He paused. "_But I can tell that's not all, is it. What's going on, Johnny?_"

Mike listened as Johnny gave Captain Stanley the rundown on the harassment they'd been suffering. After Johnny finished conveying their tale of woe, there was a long silence as Cap spoke for a while.

"You will?" Johnny said. "Wow, thanks!"

Another silence, short this time.

"She would? Really? That's really nice, Cap—that would be great."

This time Johnny's face fell a bit.

"Yeah, I know we do. We did yesterday, and the deputy who came was all right. I was gonna, later today, I promise—" Johnny paused briefly to listen. "Okay, okay, you're right. I'll do it right now. Thanks, Cap. We'll see you soon."

Johnny hung up the phone.

"What'd he say?" Mike asked.

"He's coming over, and Mrs. Stanley is sending us over a casserole to put in the oven for dinner so we have one less thing to worry about. Her words, apparently."

Mike laughed. "I think they have a whole freezer of 'Emergency Food for Hank's Boys' in the basement or something."

"Yeah, probably," said Johnny.

"So what's the part you didn't like? That you're gonna supposedly do right now?"

"He's right, I know," Johnny groaned. "We have to call the sheriff again. I knew we did; that's why I popped those tapes out, 'cause they're gonna want 'em. I just don't feel like it, though. Having that deputy look at that letter was bad enough, but those messages? What I'd really like to do is just unspool the tapes and run them through the garbage disposal."

"Uh, you wanna go to the garage, and I'll call the sheriff?"

"Seriously?" Johnny's face lit up at the prospect of being able to take his aggression out on plates of iron and a punching bag.

"Sure. Uh, unless you think I'm still too mellow to make a phone call, but I'm not, am I? I mean, it seems like that stuff is mostly worn off."

"Naw, I think you're fine. Still not gonna let you drive today, but a phone call? No problem. Especially since it's one I don't wanna do," Johnny admitted.

"Okay. Scram—I'll call the law."

"Damn, Mike. I'm a fortunate man." Mike's leg was still up on the coffee table, so Johnny carefully straddled it as he leaned down to kiss the man who knew him so well. Before he left to work out his aggression in the garage, he helpfully handed Mike the phone, as well as the card the deputy had left yesterday.

Mike appreciated the view as Johnny went through the side door to the garage, and then picked up the phone and dialed.

"_L.A. County Sheriff, Deputy Price speaking._"

Mike almost sobbed with relief that it was the same person. "Hello, Deputy Price. This is Mike Stoker; you were out at our place yesterday about a letter we got, and you said to call right away if anything else happened. So I'm calling. Because something else happened." Mike cringed at his awkward wording. _Yep, that Valium is history, _he thought.

"_Yes, I remember_," said the deputy. "_Can you fill me in on what else has happened_?"

"Well, we got home after being out all morning, and both of our answering machines had, uh, unpleasant messages that also had specific threats in them. The guy tried to disguise his voice with static, but we're pretty sure it's the same guy on both."

"_Did you save the tapes?_"

"Yeah, Johnny popped them out of the machines first thing."

"_And you said there were specific threats?_"

"Yeah, uh, on Johnny's he said to resign on his next shift, and that if he showed up for another shift after that, uh, well, he kind of implied I'd get beat up," Mike said hastily. "And on mine, he said I should pack up my office and get out, and implied Johnny would get beat up if I didn't."

"_You say 'implied—' did he use names?_"

"If I remember right, he used each of our names in the beginning of the message, but not in the threats. But it was, um, pretty clear who he was talking about."

"_All right_," said Price. "_I'll come out to take your report, and I'll need to pick up the tapes as well. It'll be about an hour—is that convenient?_"

Mike's brain screamed loudly, _No, you fucking idiot, there's no convenient time for something like this!_ "Yes, that's fine. Thank you," he said calmly and politely.

Mike hung up the phone gently. He looked at the phone, picked up the receiver again, and this time slammed it down in the cradle. Hard. He sighed, and put the fortunately undamaged phone back on the side table.

"Time for a test drive," he said. He carefully bent his knee, and put his right foot on the floor. Using his practiced technique, he levered himself up using his left leg and the crutches, and swung himself out to the open area of the living room. He took a step with a small percentage of his body weight on his right leg, then another with more, and another, and another. A twinge from the carefully bandaged incision, but from the bone itself—nothing. He put his full body weight on his right leg, and took a normal step. His full weight on the leg sent a zap of cold up his femur, so he knew he'd found a limit. He tested, experimented, with two crutches, then one, until he found he just needed a small amount of support to feel no pain at all.

He hobbled to the hall closet with one crutch, and pulled out the cane he still used occasionally. Even though, in his opinion, it shouted "old man," he preferred it to the crutches, which spoke to him of injury and debility. And, when used properly—which didn't happen most of the time in real life or on TV, but Mike was taught by experts—it didn't bother his wrist or shoulder like the crutches tended to.

"Sorry, guys, but it looks like you're banished to the garage again," Mike said to the crutches. He picked up the crutches with his non-cane-using hand, and exited the side door to the garage.

Johnny was in the middle of a set of bench presses. Mike watched from the doorway, not wanting to startle him. Once Johnny had clanged the weights firmly into the supports on the rack, Mike interrupted without fear of causing injury.

"Can I work in?" he asked, tucking the crutches back into the corner they'd been retrieved from the previous day.

Johnny ducked under the bar and sat up, staring at Mike. "Uh, should you even be off the couch?" Johnny asked.

Mike shrugged. "I did a test drive. Leg seems okay if I only put ninety percent of my weight on it or so. Obviously I'm not going to be doing squats today, but I don't see why I can't do some upper body work."

Johnny looked at him dubiously. "I don't know, Mike; Valium's a muscle relaxant. It doesn't seem like a good idea to push it."

Mike sighed. "Yeah, well, I'm so mad I just about broke the phone when I hung it up, so I've gotta do _something_. By the way, Deputy Price is coming in an hour or so."

"Goody gumdrops,"Johnny snapped. He immediately smacked his forehead. "Sorry, sorry. Thanks for calling him. I'm just _not _looking forward to anyone else hearing those messages."

"No. Me neither. But there's nothing we can do about it, except keep on keepin' on, for now."

"Well, we can pump iron, punch the bag, and break shit."

"Break shit?" Mike perked up at that. "What can we break?"

Johnny pointed to the back of the garage bay. "There's that dresser from my old place that's missing two drawers since it fell off the truck when we moved my stuff. _I'm_ not gonna get around to fixing it," Johnny said seriously. "Are you?"

"No way, Gage," Mike grinned.

"And it'd be a pain to take it to the dump," Johnny said, completely straight-faced.

"Definitely. So let's chop it up with an axe—then we can just stuff it in a trash can," Mike suggested. "Actually," he amended, "we might get smaller pieces if we hit it with the 10-pound sledge."

"Very practical of you, Stoker." Johnny took the plates of the barbell and put them on their rack. "C'mon. I'll drag it out back, and we can take turns hitting it."

~!~!~!~!~

A cathartic quarter of an hour later, Mike and Johnny stood sweating and panting in front of a pile of kindling.

"I'm pretty sure that's not what Dr. Hansen had in mind when he said to lay low this afternoon," Mike said, chest heaving, "but damn, that was perfect."

"Better than Valium?" Johnny asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm.

"I don't know if it's _better_, but it's certainly more _manly_," Mike said. "There's just something about Valium that says 'frustrated middle-aged housewife.'"

"Yeah, and there's something about sledgehammers and a pile of kindling that says, what, exactly?" Johnny asked.

"Uh, pissed-off firemen?" Mike suggested.

"Sweaty, filthy, disgusting, less-pissed-off-than-before firemen," said Johnny, "who really have to get in the shower before the sheriff and their old captain show up."

"I'd say 'race you,' but we both know how that would end," said Mike, picking up the sledgehammer and leaning it against the deck. "So let's just avoid any more trips to Rampart, and walk in like adults, and go get clean." He turned to go in the side door, with Johnny at his heels.

"'kay. Wanna get dirty at the same time as we get clean? 'Cause you, and a sledgehammer, and a head full of mad? Hot. Very, very hot, Stoker," Johnny said as he followed Mike into the house.

~!~!~!~!~

After a possibly even more cathartic half hour, Johnny and Mike were clean, dry, clothed, and feeling an awful lot better. Mike was back on the couch with a bag of frozen corn on his knee, when the doorbell rang.

Mike peered out the bay window, and saw the sheriff's car. "Sheriff's here," he called.

"I'll get it," said Johnny.

"Afternoon, Captain Gage," said Deputy Price. "Sorry we're doing this again."

"Afternoon, Deputy; come on in," said Johnny, showing him to the living room again.

"Mr. Stoker," Price greeted Mike. "Did you get that knee looked at?"

"Yep. Had a screw loose. Got it pulled out this morning," he said matter-of-factly. "Have a seat—Johnny you wanna grab that tape player off the desk?"

"Sure," said Johnny, ducking into the spare room and returning shortly with a portable cassette tape player, and picking up the two tapes from the counter by the answering machines on his way back. "We wish you didn't have to listen to these—we wish we didn't have to hear them again either. They're, um, kinda embarrassing."

"Well, Captain, just like in your job, you see an awful lot of things about people that they wish you hadn't seen, and I'll bet that just like me, you walk away and forget about it. Right?"

"Most of the time," Johnny admitted. "But I'll tell ya, the ones that stick with me are the ones where people have done something so incredibly dumb that you hafta think a long time about how they even managed it. Like this one time? There was this guy who—" Johnny caught Mike's look, and interrupted himself. "Sorry. Not the time to start a rant. But yeah." He popped the first tape in the machine, and pushed 'rewind.' "I get it."

"It's not my job to pass judgment," said Price, to make his point clear. "Someone's threatening you, and our job is to get to the bottom of it and try to keep anything worse from happening."

The tape reached its beginning, and the machine clicked to a stop.

"You mean you're gonna try and do something? Not just take a report?" Mike asked.

"Yes indeed. I spoke to my supervisor after I got off the phone with you today, and he agreed it seems to be escalating. Let's go over the tapes, and then we can talk about what's next."

"All right," said Johnny. He pushed play, and the static and the humiliating message addressed to him played back. Price took some notes, and bagged and labeled the first tape, as Johnny readied the second tape.

Once again, he pushed play, and the hateful words spewed out of the player. Deputy Price took some more notes, and repeated the routine of labeling and bagging the tape. Throughout the ordeal, Mike held his head in his hands, and sank lower and lower into the couch.

When the tapes were packed away, Johnny joined Mike on the couch, but didn't touch him. There would be time for that later, when they weren't both feeling so naked and humiliated. Johnny was keenly aware that it was likely that Deputy Price was not particularly in favor of his and Mike's relationship, but he appreciated that the officer was able to stay professional. Johnny had put aside his own feelings about patients he'd had to treat many a time.

"So what now, Deputy Price?"

"A few things. First, it's up to you, of course, whether or not you choose to follow through with the extortionist's demands. I would highly recommend that you _not_ do so—acceding to his demands is unlikely to stop his harassment. However, because both demands pertain to your place of work, you each need to speak with your immediate supervisors and explain the demands and the threats that have been made against you. I appreciate that this is likely to be awkward, but it is essential. You don't need to explain why you're being harassed, but you need to explain that threats of physical harm have been made. You can have them call my office for confirmation." Price looked at them without blinking, and waited for a response.

"We made pretty sure we haven't violated any written rules of the department by, uh, living together," Johnny said. "But unwritten rules? Hell yes. So yeah, that's gonna be tricky. But, on the other hand, it's a little hard to believe that I'd be telling my battalion chief anything he didn't already know."

"I don't honestly know what my boss knows, or thinks," said Mike. "I'm sure the rumors were already flying about us before I got hired onto the arson unit. But I guess I'll find out tomorrow," he sighed. "God, I hate this bullshit."

"So we'll do our part—what can the sheriff's office do?" Johnny asked.

"We're sending a car down your street once an hour, to start with, at random times. We're going to step up patrols around Station 93 at night, and whenever the C-shift is out on a run. And, we're going to interview people in the personnel office at the department headquarters about who has access to personal information—specifically, your address and phone number, Captain Gage—and try to get a sense for how difficult it would be to get that information outside of normal channels."

"Wow," said Johnny. "I'm not sure about that last one. That seems like it might just stir up more trouble."

"I'm afraid you need to accept that it's a necessary step," said Deputy Price. "The unfortunate fact is that victims of crimes often end up having further discomfort as the result of efforts on their behalf."

"You can't make an omelet without breaking eggs," Mike said quietly. "Yeah, I guess I see that."

"One more thing—it seems likely that this individual has a personal grudge against at least one of you, outside of his objection to your association with each other. Please think about whether there are people within the department who might have some other bone to pick with you, either personal or professional. We're not making accusations, but we would certainly be interested in anyone who had access to personal information and was also someone either of you had had a past conflict with."

"Oh, boy," muttered Johnny. "Considering how old Ted acted today, I might have a pretty long list."

"Ted?" Price asked.

"Uh, okay," Johnny cleared his throat before continuing. "I used to kind of, um, try to go out with a lot of girls at Rampart—my old squad's base hospital—and I kind of realized today that at least one of them is probably personally offended by my having gone out with her and then gotten together with a guy. If you kinda see what I mean," he finished.

"But who's this Ted?" Price repeated.

"He's her boyfriend. He gave us the evil eye big-time today when we were at Rampart," Mike said. "But you know, I don't see how it could be him—Johnny, he checked you out for a long time before I think he figured out who you were. And who I was. And he works at Rampart, not HQ."

"But that's the kind of thing you need to be thinking about—people who may hold a grudge against you for something personal or professional, who might have some connection with the fire department," Pride reinforced.

"All right," said Johnny. "We'll think about it. But I don't really like the idea of getting all, I dunno, suspicious and paranoid."

"The fact is," said Price, "you're going to have to think that way a bit for the time being. Because this isn't going to quietly disappear until we find out who's behind what's been happening."

"Yeah," said Johnny. "Yeah, I guess I kinda know that."

"By the way," Price added, peering out into the yard, "the, uh, destruction in the yard there—is that something I need to look into?"

Johnny snorted. "No, it's just some stress management."

"Sorry?" Price looked back and forth between Johnny and Mike.

"You know—taking out your frustrations on helpless inanimate objects," said Mike.

"Oh—right. I use the shooting range," Price admitted.

"We break stuff with axes and sledgehammers," Mike replied.

"Fair enough," said Price. "One last thing," he added. "Neighbors. I can't stress the importance of talking to your neighbors. If you can, please talk to a few today." He handed them a small stack of business cards. "Give them these—I'm not available all the time, but if they need to call in, they can say I told them to call if there was anything suspicious, and the call _will_ get to the right person."

Johnny took the cards. "Thanks. We will—today."

He showed the deputy out. "Well, I hate to say it, but we'll probably see you again, won't we."

"Unfortunately, it seems that way. Oh—I'll have one of the hourly patrol cars drop off a copy of the reports from yesterday and today. Probably tomorrow some time."

"Great. Thanks."

Johnny closed the door, and joined Mike in the living room again. He sat right next to him, and was relieved when Mike reached out to take his hand.

"I seriously wanted to just disappear when he played those tapes again," Mike admitted.

"And I wanted to disappear when I had to fess up about all the women at Rampart I maybe pissed off. Though," he admitted, "it's not as many as I think most people would assume."

"How many?" Mike asked, curious to hear an actual figure. "I mean, how many women at Rampart did you, say, get beyond second base with?"

"Not as many as people would assume," Johnny repeated vaguely. "Partly because ninety percent of the girls I asked wouldn't go out with me in the first place, and partly 'cause I was always gettin' dumped. C'mon, everyone on our shift always heard my sad stories, right?"

"Tally, Gage. Let's see a scoreboard."

"Fine, fine. Gimme a sec—it was like six years, right?" He scrunched his face up while he was thinking. "One homer, two—no, three third bases, and another handful of second bases. Geez, it sounds terrible when I put it that way, But that's it. I swear. And the weird thing is, they were always the ones that dumped me. Except for this one chick, Lynn, an aide in pediatrics—but man, she was weird. I mean, she seemed fine at first, but then she got real weird, real fast."

"Weird like how?" Mike asked.

"Hard to describe. I guess, weirdly possessive and obsessive. Not jealous—she wasn't worried about other girls or anything—but I guess a good way to put it was she didn't have boundaries. Like for example, one time when the squad was parked in the ambulance entrance, Roy and I came back and there she was, sitting in passenger's seat of the squad, having her coffee."

"That's not so weird," Mike said. "I mean, maybe she just knew you were around, and didn't want to bug you in the ER, so she waited for you there."

"Well, I haven't gotten to the weird part yet—I said 'Hi' to her, and she just up and said somethin' like she just wanted to sit where I was all day, and then she took off. No 'hey, how's your day going,' or 'I just wanted to say hi,' or anything like that—she just plain took off."

"What else?" Mike asked, beginning to get the picture.

"Well, she started just showing up at my place—sometimes she'd be there waiting in the parking lot when I came off a shift. And even when I explained that I'd been up working the whole night, that I just needed to go to sleep, she'd insist on making me breakfast or something. And I didn't like to be rude or anything, but after a coupla times of this I finally had to tell her to lay off, that I didn't want her coming around any more. I mean, I'd've steered clear of picking up any _guys_ that behaved like she started to, that's for sure; so it's not that I don't think women should be assertive. It's just that this was beyond assertive."

"I think I remember you complaining about her—this was in my last year at 51s, right?"

Johnny squinted and looked up at a corner. "Yeah, that's about right."

"She sounded pretty creepy to me even then," Mike said. "What happened after you told her to quit showing up at your place?"

"Man, she got real bad for a while. She stopped showing up in person, but she kept leaving me stuff—she left cookies in the squad once, and she left all sorts of stuff by my front door, and she even brought stuff to the station a couple times. I remember her saying she knew firemen loved it when people brought cookies and stuff, 'cause—" Johnny stopped suddenly. "Huh."

"What?" Mike asked.

"Huh," Johnny said again, staring off into the distance. "I'd forgotten about that."

"What?" Mike asked again.

"Her brother," Johnny said. "Lynn's brother was a mechanic for the department."

**TBC**


	26. Escalation

**Chapter 26: Escalation**

Johnny and Mike had only begun pondering the possible ramifications of Johnny's realization about Lynn Nolan and her brother when the doorbell rang. Mike looked out the window and recognized Hank Stanley's Oldsmobile Delta 88.

"It's Cap," Mike said, as Johnny headed to the door.

"Hey, Cap!" said Johnny, opening the door. "C'mon in!"

Stanley handed Johnny a casserole in an aluminum tray as he toed his shoes off. His size 14 shoes looked absurdly large next to Mike's and Johnny's more reasonable pairs.

"Thanks for this, Cap," Johnny said, putting the casserole on the counter to thaw.

"No trouble—Jane keeps a ton of those in the freezer for occasions where she feels like one of my boys needs a helping hand."

"We guessed that," Mike said from the couch.

"Mike, sorry about that leg. That's a downer."

"Yeah, well, I think it'll be all right sooner than I was imagining," Mike admitted. "I kinda panicked at first, but I'm over it."

"Seriously? He panicked?" Hank said to Johnny. "What does _that_ look like?"

"He gets kinda green, and swears a lot. Personally I thought it was justified—the crunching sound was pretty ominous."

"But it was just a screw, right? And it's out already?" asked Hank.

"Hel-llloooo! I'm right here!" said Mike. "And yes, it's out, and I'm fine. Just icing it after overdoing it just now. In the yard. With a sledgehammer. For stress management."

"I see," said Hank, peering out into the yard at the pile of kindling.

"Why dontcha come in and have a seat, Cap," said Johnny. "C'n I get you a drink? Iced tea? Soda?"

"Sure—tea sounds great. No sugar please. I can't stay long, but I just wanted to see how you guys are doing, and see how I can help." Hank took a seat across from Mike. "You guys talk to the law yet?"

"Yeah, the deputy just left," answered Mike. "He said we have to talk to our bosses, since this guy is likely to try to screw with us again at work."

"Hm. Mike, I don't know the Arson unit's chief," said Hank.

"Who, Rhodes? Well, he did hire me," said Mike, "even though I'm sure the rumors were already flying. I mean, Johnny was with me at the hospital for pretty much a whole month after I got hurt, and that kinda let the cat outta the bag. And to be honest," Mike continued, "I'm pretty surprised nobody's hassled either one of us until now. Though this crap is beyond hassling."

Johnny came in with iced tea for everyone. "I can't wait to talk to Chief Livingston," he said, naming the head of the County's northern division, in which Station 93 was located. "He's real old-school about pretty much everything. You know the type—thinks air packs are for sissies, feels like the paramedic program is a waste of resources, and so on, and so on."

"Livingston," said Hank, with a frown on his face, "is an ass. And I'm speaking from personal experience. He was one of my first captains, and, let's just say, we didn't get on. I hate to say it, John, but I think you'd be better off just not saying a thing to him. Just because the sheriff thinks you ought to, doesn't mean it's actually the best idea."

"Yeah, that thought did cross my mind," admitted Johnny. "I don't think it's worth it to get him riled up about something that might not even happen, and that isn't something I'm responsible for anyhow."

"You know what you oughta do instead?" Hank suggested. "You oughta tell the other captains at 93s, and any other captains you know who would be sympathetic. That way, other people—sympathetic people, at the same level of the command structure as you, will know what's going on.

"Yeah, that's probably better than talking to Livingston. Thanks, Cap," said Johnny.

"As for me," Mike said, "I'm just gonna bite the bullet and talk to Rhodes tomorrow. We have this big trial coming up a week from tomorrow, and I think I'd rather risk annoying him up front than blindsiding him later."

"I'm not gonna say anything to my crew, Cap." Johnny said. "I mean, they all know about the tires, 'cause that was kinda hard to hide, but as for the rest—nope."

"Good call, John," said Hank. "They're all young, and mostly fairly inexperienced, and I think it's important for the Captain to seem, well, indestructible."

Johnny laughed. "Well, I'm in luck, then—apparently I'm a legend."

"Oh, good lord, Gage," groaned Mike. "All Yang said was that you're a legend for how often you got messed up on the job, not for being indestructible."

"Same thing, though," argued Johnny. "I got messed up, and I came back."

"Repeatedly," Hank said wryly.

"So? Like I said, Cap; same thing."

"And what am I gonna have to do," said Hank, "to get you twits to call me Hank? I'm not your captain any more, and John, you _are_ a captain, for crying out loud."

Johnny squirmed in his seat, and Mike poked at the bag of corn draped over his knee.

"Or not," Hank laughed. "Listen, guys—I've gotta get going," he said as he stood up. "Keep me posted, will ya? And don't forget—you've got a lot of friends in the department—a lot. And just one or two crazy enemies."

"Thanks, Cap," said Johnny. "And, uh," he hesitated.

"What, John?" Hank asked, as he tied his shoes.

"Say hi to Marco from us," he said. "Even if he doesn't say hi back."

Hank softened his look. "I will. He misses everyone—I know he does. I think it's just—"

"I know," said Johnny. "Everyone's got their baggage. But it's up to each person whether or not they can put it down."

~!~!~!~!~

Mike and Johnny tried to continue their Sunday as if nothing unusual had happened. The problem was, it just wasn't true, and they both knew it. But groceries were bought, laundry was done, and the pile of splintered wood in the yard went into a trash can. Mike put Mrs. Stanley's casserole in the oven, and they had an early dinner.

Shortly after they'd cleaned up from their meal, the doorbell rang. Johnny and Mike looked at each other nervously—they weren't expecting anyone, and they were both on edge.

"I'll get it," said Mike, "since I'm not sitting on the couch this time."

He went to the front door, and looked cautiously through the peephole. He relaxed, and opened the door. "Mrs. Daniels!" he said to their neighbor. "Please, come in! We were just about to have some coffee—will you join us?"

"Hello, Mike," she said. "and John. I'd love some coffee—as long as you have decaf. At my age, it's hard enough to sleep, and caffeine after dinner pretty much ruins the night."

"I was going to make Sanka anyhow," said Mike. "We've both got to be up at the crack of dawn, so the real stuff is no good for us, either. Please, come in and have a seat."

Mrs. Daniels took a seat on the sofa, sitting with Johnny while Mike set up the Mr. Coffee.

"I don't mean to pry," Mrs. Daniels said hesitantly, "but is everything all right over here? I'm afraid that ever since I retired, I have too much time to look out the window, and I noticed a sheriff's deputy here yesterday and again today, and was a little worried for you."

Johnny sighed. "The truth is, Mrs. D., we've had some trouble. Someone's been messin' around with us—slashed my tires at work, messed up Mike's office, sent us some hate mail, and left us some nasty messages."

Mrs. Daniels' hand flew to her mouth. "Well, that's terrible! Who on Earth would do something like that? Certainly nobody from this neighborhood—everyone likes you boys, and we all feel so much safer with a fireman and a paramedic right here."

"Well," Johnny said quietly, "Let's put it this way: the fire department isn't very tolerant of people who don't follow the, uh, the unwritten rules of life. It's not exactly a secret that Mike and I live together, but someone seems to have taken exception to us all of a sudden."

"I see," she said, drawing her brows together. "Well, you can rest assured that I'll _personally_ keep an eye out for anything suspicious around here. I don't consider myself to be the neighborhood busybody—we'll leave that honor to Mrs. Jenkins up the street—but I _do_ live across the street from you, and as I said, I _do_ look out the window a fair amount."

Mike limped back into the living room.

"And Michael Stoker," she continued, "you're limping."

"Yes, ma'am," Mike admitted glumly, and repeated the story of yesterday's misadventure and the morning's minor surgical procedure.

"Actually, Mrs. D.," Johnny continued after Mrs. Daniels had fussed over Mike a bit, "the sheriff said we should give these out to sympathetic neighbors." He handed her a card from the stack. "In case you have to call, this number will get you to the right person. And there's the case number from the reports we've filed."

Mrs. Daniels tucked the card into her pocket. "Well, I certainly hope I won't have to use this, but I will if I have to."

Mike laughed. "You make it sound like a weapon."

"Oh, I'm not to be trifled with, young man. You just ask any of my former students—they'd tell you not to get on my bad side."

"Um, I'm gonna go get the coffee," Johnny said, thoughts of many hours spent in the principal's office dancing through his head.

"Guilty conscience on that one?" Mrs. Daniels asked, knowing Johnny could hear perfectly well from the kitchen.

"Lots of fights at school," Mike replied.

Johnny brought in a tray with three mugs of coffee, milk, and sugar.

"I'm surprised," Mrs. Daniels said to him as he sat down. "You don't seem like the fighting type."

"Well," he said, passing her a mug, "at the school on the reservation, I got my a—I mean, uh, rear, kicked for being half white, and at schools in L.A., I got beat up for being an Indian."

"Caught in the middle," said Mrs. Daniels, shaking her head. "At least as a black child, I knew where I stood from day one."

They finished their decaf, chatting about neighborhood goings on.

"Well," Mrs. Daniels said, "I should let you folks finish your weekend. I'm sure you're needing to leave early in the morning, so I don't want to keep you up."

Johnny walked her across the street, and returned home to get ready for an early bedtime, since they both had to be up by five thirty.

"You gonna be able to sleep tonight?" he asked Mike.

"How do I know?" Mike answered testily, tossing his cut-offs into the laundry pile. "I won't know till I'm asleep how long it'll take for me to get that way, will I." He stopped in mid-throw of his Led Zeppelin t-shirt. "Sorry."

"'s okay," Johnny said.

"Man," Mike said, "I really wish I had that switch in my brain like you do—the one that lets you just not think about what you don't wanna think about."

"Well," said Johnny, "we're even, tonight—'cause mine's not working right now."

~!~!~!~!~

Mike entered the HQ building bright and early on Monday morning—since Johnny'd had to leave extra early to get a ride in pick up his vehicle, Mike figured he might as well get an early start to his day. He was happy to get a good parking spot, since even with the cane, his knee still hurt when he walked. He arrived at the front door just as Bert Saunders was unlocking it so the morning traffic could begin to enter.

"Hey, Stoker," Bert greeted him. "What's up with the leg?"

Mike explained; Bert cringed. "Sorry, man. There's just something about, you know, having metal parts, that kinda creeps me out."

"No kidding," Mike said dryly. "It creeps me out too. I was just starting to forget about the hardware, too."

"Well, was the rest of your weekend at least good?" Bert asked.

"Not really." Mike elaborated, telling him the whole story, if only because it was good to be able to tell somebody in this building.

"Shit," said Bert. "Ya know, it really pisses me off that someone from the department would be doing this shit. And you know," he added, "it _has_ to be someone from the department."

"We know," said Mike. "We know."

"Listen," Bert said suddenly. "I'll walk you up to your office. Just wanna make sure there's no other crap getting pulled up there, and then I'll let you get to work."

Mike didn't really feel like he needed protection, but could see that Bert really wanted to help out in any way he could. "Thanks—that'd be great."

The two took the elevator up to the deserted sixth floor, and Mike unlocked and opened his office door.

They were immediately inundated with the stench of ammonia, and something else as well.

"Shit!" Mike said, stepping back into the hallway.

Bert took a step forwards, towards but not into the office. "Piss, actually. Damn. Looks like you got pee-pucked." He shut the office door again, and looked at the gap between the bottom of the door and the carpet. "Yep, there's just enough room."

"What the hell is pee-pucked?" Mike asked.

"A nasty little trick where you freeze piss into shallow dishes, unmold the results, then slide the pee-pucks under the door. It melts, and it, um, mellows with age. Bet they did this Friday night, from the smell of it."

"That's great. That's just great," Mike snarled. "I have a fucking lot of work to get done, and my office smells like a men's room that hasn't been cleaned in a month, and I just can't fucking take any more of this BULLSHIT!" He kicked the closed door viciously with his good leg. "Ow," he complained.

"All right, all right—cool down. Here's what we'll do. I'll go down to the basement and bring up the carpet extractor, and a fan. You'll go to the break room and make some coffee. I'll clean your carpet so good you won't know anything ever happened, and then we'll spill some coffee on the floor, and I'll clean that. Then the fan takes care of the cleaning fluid, which is all that'll be left, and you don't even have to fib too hard to explain why there's a fan in your door, and all anyone'll smell in fifteen minutes will be coffee. Okay?"

Bert looked at Mike, who still had his back turned. "Okay?" he repeated.

Mike turned around. "Yeah. Okay," he said. "And thanks. You're a genius, and a good guy."

~!~!~!~!~

Johnny rolled into Station 93's parking lot in plenty of time to go over the previous shift with the B-shift's captain, Jeff Gilbert. They went over some maintenance issues that needed to be taken care of, and Gilbert described a particularly interesting rescue call that he knew Johnny would appreciate.

"Listen," Gilbert said as he was gathering his belongings to get ready to leave. "Len said your tires got slashed Friday night."

"Yep," Johnny said curtly, not really wanting to explain the rest of his weekend, but also not wanting to ignore Gilbert's concern. "Mike and I have been getting some real shit." He gave Gilbert a brief run-down of the problems thus far.

Gilbert looked at him uncomfortably. "You know, you can't talk to Chief Livingston about this bullshit. He, uh …" Gilbert trailed off uncomfortably.

"What'd he say, Jeff?" Johnny asked, knowing Gilbert had probably been on the receiving end of some unflattering comments about him and Mike.

"He said he would only tolerate having 'one of them' at one of his stations because so many other guys had quit, but the first time you screwed up, you were gone."

"Yeah," Johnny said sourly. "And I'm sure that in his mind, any of these things constitutes a screw-up on my part. Thanks for the heads-up, Jeff. I'm gonna do my best to not let this crap get in the way of work, but, well, getting in the way kinda seems to be the idea here."

"Well, lemme know if there's anything I can do, all right?" said Gilbert, keys in hand.

"Sure, Jeff. Thanks," Johnny sighed. "Oh, and I don't want any of the crew to know about this, all right? Just us Caps."

"As it should be," said Gilbert. "Have a safe shift."

"Thanks. Have good days off." Johnny turned to the logbook, and started looking over the rest of the runs from the last two shifts.

~!~!~!~!~

Mike was just finishing reviewing a lab report when there was a knock on his slightly-ajar door.

"C'mon in," he said.

Wes Harris entered the room and flopped down in the chair across from Mike. "What's with the fan?" he asked without prelude.

"I spilled coffee all over the rug first thing this morning," Mike replied, silently thanking Bert for giving him a way to explain without actually lying. "You have a good weekend?" he asked, trying to divert Wes's attention from the carpet.

"Oh, I can't complain," said Wes. "You look like you had a hell of a weekend yourself—though I can't tell if it was in a good way or a bad way."

"Well, let's see. I spent yesterday morning in the ER at Rampart. So I'm gonna go with 'bad,'" Mike said.

"Shoot," said Wes. "What'd you do to yourself?"

Mike found Wes's phrasing supremely irritating, so he decided to make his explanation as unpleasant as possible. "You know I have a metal rod this long in my thigh bone, after it got shattered when that car hit me?" he said, holding his hands about a foot and a half apart.

Wes nodded.

"So there's four screws that hold it all together. One of them got infected, and the bone got weak around that spot, and the screw popped out of the bone on Saturday. It made a really gross sound, and it hurt like a sonofabitch."

"Geez," said Wes, turning paler than was normal for him.

"Then it swelled up like a melon overnight, so I went in to Rampart on Sunday and they pulled it out."

"Ow," Wes replied. "I mean, did it hurt?"

Mike was enjoying Wes's discomfort. He didn't dislike the guy—not really—but he sometimes got annoyed at Wes's insensitivity, and was in the kind of mood where he wanted to give him a little taste of his own medicine. He could tell Wes was creeped out by his description so far, so he decided to make it as graphic as possible.

"No, not after they numbed it up. That took like twelve shots, and let me tell you—that stuff burns when it goes in." He conveniently left out the fact that by that point, he was so relaxed from the Valium that he didn't really care what was happening. "Then once it was all numbed up, the doc just sliced through, and used an actual screwdriver—just like the kind in a toolbox, except all sterilized and everything—to get the screw the rest of the way out. I could totally feel it twisting and turning—but it didn't really hurt, just more like, I dunno, pressure and pulling."

He looked across at Wes, who was sweating and pale.

"And there was quite a lot more blood than I was expecting," Mike added calmly. "It was pretty gross." He paused to let that sink in. "Want some coffee?"

"Uh, no thanks," Wes said quickly. "I was just stopping by to compare notes on a few things—but I can come back later if you're in the middle of something."

"Actually," said Mike, "I do have an appointment to go talk to Rhodes in a few minutes."

"Huh?" asked Wes. "Whaddaya need to see the chief about? Is it anything about the case?"

"Not directly," Mike said vaguely. "I mean, I'm just doing the reports on the accelerants and the pour pattern. I'm not doing any testifying in this case or anything like that. So I'm not totally sure what exactly we'll talk about," he finished, realizing he didn't want to discuss his meeting with their boss. "How 'bout if I come by your office when I'm done?"

"Okay," said Wes. "I have an interview to sit in on at the sheriff's office later, but nothing else this morning."

Mike made a show of heaving himself up out of his chair and grabbing his cane. Wes watched him without comment.

"Sorry about your leg, man. That stinks."

"Yeah. It wasn't the best weekend," said Mike.

~!~!~!~!~

Mike waited outside his boss's office for a few minutes before the door opened and Rhodes ushered him in.

"So what's the big mystery, Stoker? You said you needed to talk to me today," Rhodes said. "Must be something about that leg—I haven't seen you use that cane in a while."

"I had kind of a setback this weekend," Mike explained. "But, I just want to start by saying that, uh, I appreciate you taking me on in the AFIU. Considering everything."

Rhodes stared across his desk at Mike. "'Considering everything?' What's that supposed to mean? The department makes it a priority to keep men on who could have gone for a medical discharge but still want to do work they're able to do. I was happy to have you come on board—I don't care if you have to use that cane every now and then to get around. Why would you think I'd have a problem with that?"

"That's, uh, not the 'everything' I was thinking."

"Oh," said Rhodes. "You mean the other thing."

"Yeah—that I'm—"

"Hold it!" Rhodes said, putting both hands up, palms out. "We don't really need to discuss that, all right? It's not relevant to your job. I don't care what happens at home, as long as it doesn't get in the way of the job."

_Well, that wasn't exactly acceptance_, Mike thought, _But I'll take it anyhow_. "But here's the problem, sir. It might. Someone in the department has it in for me and Johnny, and threatened us both if we don't resign."

Rhodes just stared at him. "Go on."

"And I'm _not_ resigning," Mike said strongly. "I don't quit from work I'm good at—work that's important—just because some crazy bastard has a hangup about my personal life and wants to beat the shit out of me. Sir."

"This has to be the first time," Rhodes said slowly, "that one of my men has come storming into my office and angrily announced that they're _not_ quitting. So I ask you, Stoker, _why_ is it that you're telling _me_ all this instead of just keeping things to yourself?"

"Because whoever this bastard is, he's in the department, all right? He wants me out, and he's almost certainly going to be trying to make things difficult for me around here. So I thought it was fair to warn you of that, just in case anything really, uh, dire or weird happens because of him. The sheriff recommended I tell you anyhow."

Rhodes sighed heavily. "Fair enough. But please tell me one thing—no cops are coming here, right?"

Mike shook his head. "Sorry, sir. Cops are going to be checking in with the personnel office—this guy got hold of some personal information that's on file here but nowhere else, and used it to make threats via U.S. Mail."

"Jesus." Rhodes rubbed a hand over his face. "All right. Just make sure the case doesn't get fucked up, all right? Have the girls in the office make copies of everything—and I mean _everything_—before it leaves your hands, all right? And get Wes to look at all your stuff, too."

"Yessir," said Mike. "Copies of everything, and Wes checks it all over."

"Not that I don't trust you," Rhodes said. "It's just that if something weird happens to your reports or anything, I wanna make sure he's seen what was supposed to be there."

Mike didn't really see how having Harris look at his reports would solve anything, but he wasn't going to argue. "Sure thing," he said. "Two sets of eyes are better than one any time."

"And Stoker," Rhodes added, as he started to send Mike out of the office, "whoever this idiot is, they didn't do that to you, right?" he asked, pointing to Mike's leg.

"No sir," Mike said. "Just a complication. It's taken care of."

"What kind of complication?" Rhodes asked, uncharacteristically curiously.

Mike decided to spare him the graphic depiction he'd presented to Harris. "One of the screws holding the rod inside my femur came loose. Had to get it out yesterday. Not a big deal."

"Oh. Okay. Well, go do your work," Rhodes finished, making shooing motions. "And keep me posted," he said vaguely.

~!~!~!~!~

Mike worked late, as he often did when Johnny was on a 24-hour shift on a weekday. As he pulled into the driveway, he considered Deputy Price's advice, and parked his truck in the garage for the night. He pulled the overhead door down, and locked it.

He was relieved to see that the house looked perfectly normal—he'd half expected to come home to broken windows or some other vandalism, but everything looked the way he'd left it that morning. He turned the key in the lock, and looked forward to the rush of cool air he expected from the central air.

He walked in the front door, and immediately gagged at the terrible stench that assaulted him. Rather than continuing inside, he stepped right back outside, caught his breath, and held it as he went back through the door a second time.

There was a flat paper bag—the kind you might put a book or magazine in—on the floor right under the mail slot. Mike dashed into the kitchen, put on some rubber gloves, picked up the bag, and got it out of the house as quickly as he could, plopping it onto the driveway in front of the garage. From the feel and smell of the bag, Mike could tell it was shit, but he was absolutely not going to open the bag to get any further information.

He retrained himself from shouting obscenities on his quiet residential street, and instead, went inside, turned off the air conditioning, opened all the windows, and called the sheriff. Again. For the third day in a row.

While he was waiting for a call back from the sheriff's office, Mike took the mail—the real mail—outside on the front step. Luckily, it didn't seem to have been affected by the package delivered on top of it.

Once again, there was a plain white envelope with no return address. This time, it also had no stamp, and was addressed, simply, "Resident Queers." Mike sighed, and opened the envelope.

There was a single sheet of paper, with a typewritten message on it: "_Here's a little something to go with the present we delivered to your office. They're a matched set of gifts. Aren't we clever? Enjoy!_"

Mike put the letter outside, next to the bag, and weighted it down with some rocks. He didn't want that filth inside his house any more than he wanted the bag of shit it came with. He went back in the house, pulled some fans out of the hall closet and set them up in the windows to push air out of the house. He changed out of his work clothes, pulled a Guinness out of the fridge, and sat on the back porch with a book, waiting for the sheriff to call.

After a few minutes, Mike heard the doorbell ring. He set his beer and his book down, and limped out to the front of the house. There was no way he was letting anyone inside the house until the smell cleared.

Mrs. Daniels was standing on the front step, holding a piece of paper.

"Hi, Mrs. Daniels," Mike said from the gate. "There's been kind of a problem in the house, or I'd say come on in."

Mrs. Daniels frowned. "I was afraid that fellow was up to no good," she said.

"Uh, what fellow?" Mike asked.

"A fellow came by, mid afternoon, and put something through your mail slot. Looked like a paper bag. Anyhow, I didn't recognize him, but I took down his plate number, just in case there was a problem." She paused. "Was there a problem?"

"Yeah," Mike nodded. "There was a problem, and the sheriff's probably gonna want to talk to you. You said you got his plates?"

Mrs. Daniels nodded. "I'm no good with makes and models and all that nonsense, but I'm not so old I can't write down a license plate number. So I'll have something good for the sheriff when he comes."

"Thanks, Mrs. Daniels. Really—thanks," said Mike.

"You boys need anything? I mean, I don't mean to pry, but is your house inhabitable?"

"Oh, it will be once the air circulates for a while," Mike said, not really wanting to discuss the details. "So I think we're okay for tonight. It's just me, anyhow—Johnny's on a twenty-four hour shift till the morning."

"Well, you let me know if you need company, all right? For now, I'll hang on to my paper here—I'll give it to the sheriff when he turns up."

Mike would've been happy to spare her the trouble, but he could see she was proud of her work, and didn't want to take it away from her. "Thanks for keeping an eye out. I'll let the sheriff know you may have cracked the case."

Mrs. Daniels laughed. "Well, I wouldn't go that far," she said.

"I would," said Mike. "So far all we have is speculation. Now we have evidence. So thanks," he said again.

"You're welcome. All y'all firemen keep us safe, so keepin' an eye out is the least I can do." She waved, and headed back across the street.

~!~!~!~!~

Station 93's C-shift was sitting down to dinner. Emerson, the shift's junior member, had made roasted chicken, potatoes, and broccoli. He was a good cook, and the evening meal seemed like it would live up to expectations. The men joked and teased throughout the meal, as usual. Johnny listened to the carefree chatter, but didn't join in.

"Uh, Cap?" asked Emerson.

Johnny didn't reply at first—he still wasn't totally used to that form of address.

"Cap'n Gage?" Emerson repeated.

"Huh? Who, me?" Johnny winced inwardly, but managed not to show the expression outwardly.

"Your food okay? 'Cause you're not eating, and that's not like you," said Emerson. "In fact, my momma would say you've been off your feed all day. You still mad about your tires?" Word had spread from A-shift, to B, to C, about Friday night's sabotage.

"Naw," said Johnny, tucking in to his dinner. "Just distracted. Food's great, as usual."

"Well somethin' must be bugging you," said Tompkins, C-shift's senior paramedic. "You've hardly said a word all day."

Johnny sighed, and said another silent apology to Mike, who was going to be his scapegoat. "Oh, just worrying about Stoker." He'd explained at lunch about Mike's weekend misadventure, just so the crew would have something to blame any odd captainly behavior on. "He hates having to use that cane, but he's stuck with it again for a while."

That explanation seemed to satisfy the men, who went back to their dinners, and left him to his brooding. Johnny returned to his office after supper, not because he had so much paperwork to do, but because he just wanted to be left alone. His men's jokes and antics suddenly seemed petty and inane, and tired him out, which he didn't need after the poor night's sleep he and Mike had had.

The engine had a short, straightforward call right after the dinner dishes had been washed—a small fire in a garage, which the homeowners had mostly extinguished before the engine arrived. It was fortunate that they had still called the fire department, however, because there were still some hot spots that could easily have reignited during the night, turning a small accident into a huge disaster. The engine company was back in quarters by nine p.m. Johnny decided it was still early enough to try to call Mike, so he retreated to the privacy of his office to make the call.

The answering machine picked up after the first ring—they'd decided to screen all their calls, since neither one of them particularly wanted to actually speak to their tormentor.

"Hey, babe—you there? Just checking in. We had a boring day—"

"_Hey_."

"Hi. Everything good?"

"_No_." Mike related the incidents of the day. Johnny could feel the adrenaline surging as Mike talked about the disgusting presents he'd been left at work and at home.

"_But the sheriff said they can trace the plates by tomorrow,_" Mike concluded, "s_o maybe they'll be able to stop this_."

Johnny was silent for many seconds.

"_You still there?_"

"Yeah. Ya know, I was thinking—maybe you should see if you can crash at Chet's or something—just for tonight. I just don't like the idea of—"

"_I knew you were gonna say that. No, I'm not leaving the house. Remember—we cave, they win, right? Besides, they haven't done anything violent. So far, everything's been downright cowardly. So no, I'm not going anywhere. Plus, it's too late. I was just about to turn in,"_ Mike said. _"And I'm the one that's supposed to be doing the worrying, right_?"

Johnny snorted. "I think there's enough to go around. I'll be sure to leave some for you."

"_Thanks. That's a great comfort_."

"Lock up good, all right?"

"_I will. Love you. Have a safe night—I guess I'll see you when I get home tomorrow._"

"Love you too."

Johnny sighed, and hung up the phone. He went back out to the day room. "I'm turning in early. Lights out at 2200 as usual, all right?"

"Sure thing, Cap."

Johnny set his boots and bunker pants by the side of his bunk, stripped down to boxers and t-shirt, threw his arm over his eyes, and fell asleep right away.

**TBC**


	27. Damage

A/N: Warning for physical violence in this chapter. It's not extreme, but it is intense.

.

**Chapter 27: Damage**

Mike slept fitfully all night, waking at every small sound. At one o'clock he got up for a while, and made himself some herbal tea. As he sat at the table, drinking the supposedly calming beverage, he reflected on how sleep was another aspect of life he could divide into "before" and "after." Before his accident, he was the one who got teased about sleeping through the station's tones; he was the one who woke in nearly the same position in the bed as he'd drifted off in. He started having trouble sleeping in the hospital—where they don't make it easy, anyhow—and had been dismayed when the difficulties persisted after he returned home. Along with beginning to forget about the metal hardware in his leg, sleep was something else that had just recently begun to improve—until the harassment started. Since Friday, the day when everything started with the graffiti on his office door, Mike was back to his immediately-post-hospital pattern of feeling like he was awake all night, even though he knew he must have been sleeping some of the time.

He finished his tea, and went back to bed. Like he always did when Johnny was away, he slept right in the middle of the bed, clutching Johnny's pillow to him as a pathetic substitute for the real thing. He finally drifted off into a sound, deep sleep at four a.m.—not nearly early enough for him to wake feeling like he'd slept at all.

When the alarm sounded at six o'clock, Mike swore at it uselessly, but rose blearily and headed for the kitchen to put the coffee on. He took a quick shower, and was sitting at the table with the paper and a bowl of cereal when the phone rang at six thirty, right on schedule. He answered, not bothering to screen, since Johnny always called right after the wake-up tones if he was on duty and not out on a run.

"Hello?"

"_Hey, it's me. Everything good?_"

"Same as it was yesterday, at least, which I wouldn't say is 'good,' exactly, but no, nothing else happened."

"_I guess that's good. Nothing here, either_."

"Thank heaven for small favors."

"_You sleep okay?_"

Mike snorted. "No. Your pillow was even complaining. 'C'mon, Stoker, quit tossin' around or neither one of us is gonna sleep a wink,'" he said, in his best imitation of Johnny's voice.

Johnny didn't laugh. "_Listen, I'm gonna crash at the station for a little while this morning before I drive home—we didn't have such a good shift_."

Mike immediately felt contrite. "Sorry, I should've asked, instead of whining. What happened?"

"_House fire, two districts over, right on the edge of the county. One fatality—a kid._"

"Shit, babe. I'm sorry."

"_It was tough. Emerson took it real hard—it was the first fire he'd worked where there was a child fatality_."

"You all right?"

"_Yeah_," Johnny sighed, and Mike heard him yawn as well. "_You know that kind of thing doesn't get any easier. But I tried to do my best Captain Stanley talk with Emerson. I wished Cap had been there instead of me_."

"I'll bet you did fine," Mike said. "I'll bet someday Emerson will do his best Captain Gage talk with some kid."

"_Yeah_," said Johnny. "_Maybe he will. Listen, I gotta go. Have a good day. How 'bout we chill out with pizza and beers tonight? No cooking, no nothing._"

"Sounds good. You want me to pick it up on my way home from the office?"

"_No, what I want is for you to come straight home, as soon as you can._"

Mike smiled. "I can do that. I oughta be able to leave by four."

"_Good. Love you._"

"Love you too. See you later."

Mike hung up the phone, cleaned up after breakfast, and went to work.

~!~!~!~!~

Johnny napped for a couple of hours at 93s before driving home. He arrived at the house just after noon, and was dismayed to see a sheriff's car parked just past the driveway. He pulled the Rover into the driveway, and saw the man standing at the front door turn to look. Johnny got out of the Rover, and met the deputy at the door. It wasn't Price, but the man had to have days off some time. _And boy_, thought Johnny, _this guy looks all of nineteen. If that. _

Realizing what he'd been thinking, Johnny nearly laughed out loud at himself. _Quit it, Gage,_ he thought; _the guy could be twenty five, and just look like you did at that age._

"Afternoon, Deputy. I'm John Gage—I live here. Is there another problem?" he asked, as calmly as possible.

"I'm Deputy Houlihan; I'm just dropping off a copy of the report Mr. Stoker filed yesterday," the deputy stated. "But there was also something else I wanted to fill you in on."

"Sure—come on in." Johnny unlocked the door, and let the deputy in, pointing to the living room. "Have a seat. It's another scorcher—can I get you some tea, or some ice water or anything?"

"Actually, ice water would be fantastic," admitted the deputy, as he picked the side chair in the living room. "I'm a new guy, so I get an old car, with no AC, and on a day like today, rolling down the windows almost makes it worse."

Deputy Houlihan was an unlikely-looking Irishman, with dark skin, hair and eyes. Again, Johnny caught himself wondering about the fellow, and was reminded of his own mixed heritage and the problems it had brought him.

"Yeah, I hear ya," Johnny shouted from the kitchen, as he cracked some ice cubes out of their trays and into glasses. "The day fire engines get air conditioning—well, I'll probably be retired by then." He brought the glasses out to the living room, and took a seat on the couch across from the deputy.

"Thanks," said Houlihan, taking a long pull from his glass and setting it down on the coaster. "So let me fill you in on a few things. First, we've been to the personnel office at fire department HQ, and we got a copy of the logs of who has accessed confidential personnel information in the last two weeks. We're not expecting that these names are going to help us a lot, mostly because whoever went in to your files probably didn't exactly do it by the books. Either that, or they routinely have access to personnel information, and their names would not be out of place on the logs. In any case, we have the logs, so we can cross reference with anything else that comes up."

"Okay. But man," Johnny continued, shaking his head, "I bet they weren't happy to see you."

Houlihan laughed. "Well, it wasn't me—it was a deputy from one of our stations closer to your department's HQ building. But no, people usually aren't happy to see us."

"You said 'first' a minute ago—was there something else?" Johnny asked.

"Unfortunately, yes. The license plate number that your neighbor provided us with has opened another can of worms. The plate came back as belonging to the County Fire Department's general motor pool. We had them check their sign-out records, and nobody had that vehicle signed out yesterday. But, the odometer reading on the car was significantly higher than it had been at the end of the last authorized trip—enough to account for a round-trip between HQ and here."

Johnny sighed. "I have to say, I'm not all that surprised," he said. "There was something that occurred to me that I think I oughta mention." He related the story of Lynn Nolan, and his recollection that her brother worked as a mechanic for the fire department.

Houlihan wrote the information down in a small notebook. "Did you ever meet the brother?"

"No," replied Johnny. "I don't even know his name. I'm pretty sure she said it was her brother, but I could be wrong—she coulda said cousin, or somethin' like that."

"And you're no longer in touch with Miss Nolan?"

"No way," said Johnny. "She finally quit bugging me—stopped leaving stuff at my apartment, that sort of thing—but it took a while. I had to threaten to call the cops on her if she did it again, and then she finally quit. Come to think of it," he continued, frowning, "I don't recall seein' her around the hospital after that time either."

"We'll check in to that, see if we can get in touch with her. And we'll see if there are any Nolans on the list of people who have access to personnel files or the motor pool at your HQ."

"Like I said," Johnny reiterated, "I don't even know his name, and I'm not sure if Lynn said he was her brother, or cousin, or what. But yeah, if she has any family as weird as herself, and they're in the fire department, they're definitely worth checking out."

"Speaking of family in the fire department—I know it's a huge department, but my mother's cousin's son is a fireman. I doubt you know him, but there's a chance—Lopez. Marco Lopez?"

"No shit?" Johnny grinned. "Man, Mike and I worked with him for years at 51s. Solid guy, real solid. Wow," Johnny shook his head. "Marco's your cousin? Sometimes this county doesn't seem so big after all."

"Not exactly my cousin. His mother is married to my mother's cousin—my mother's the Lopez side of my family, obviously. But I don't know what you call it in English—it's _primo segundo_ in Spanish, so maybe second cousin?"

"Beats me, man—I don't have hardly any family, so I don't even know what a second cousin is."

"I don't know him real well—we maybe see each other a couple times of year at these crazy big family parties. But, you know—our jobs are enough alike that we get to talking. How's he doing, anyhow? I haven't seen him in a few months," said Houlihan.

"I, uh, I haven't either. I moved to 93s when I got promoted, and that's way up by Kern County. I haven't seen him since my last day at 51s—six or seven months ago. Sounds like you'll probably see him before I do," Johnny admitted. He thought for a second. "Listen—if you see him, please don't tell him about, you know, any of this."

"Wouldn't think of it," said Houlihan. "This is nasty stuff, and the sheriff's office tries to preserve the peace, you know? Not send rumors flying all over the county."

Johnny started to have an uncomfortable feeling that perhaps Houlihan was misreading the situation. He probed cautiously. "It _is_ nasty, and Mike and I are already on shaky ground with Marco. He hasn't exactly, uh, come to terms with us."

"Come to—uh, you mean, um, you're actually …" Houlihan looked flustered. "Oh. Price didn't say that it was—oh."

"Yeah."

"Sorry. I just wouldn't have thought …" Houlihan trailed off nervously.

Johnny didn't say anything; he just let the young deputy stew in the mess he'd made for himself.

"It doesn't change the facts of the case," Houlihan said, partly to himself.

"No, it doesn't," Johnny said calmly. "From our point of view, actually, it kinda makes it all worse."

"I … guess I can see that," the deputy said. "Sorry. I'm not uh, against your … own personal business and stuff. And even if I was it wouldn't make a difference in how I handled your case."

"I know," Johnny said. "As a paramedic, I've had to treat guys with swastikas tattooed on their bald scalps. I still patch 'em up just fine. I've had to treat guys who say they want the blond guy workin' on 'em, not the redskin. I manage."

"Sorry," Houlihan repeated. "I got unprofessional for a minute, and I'm sorry." He cleared his throat. "I'm kind of new," he admitted.

"Really?" Johnny said. "Sorry, now I'm messin' with you. I should know better—I still get carded sometimes myself. Want a refill on that ice water?"

"That'd be great. Thanks."

Johnny refilled the glasses, and they both downed their cold water.

"Oh, and here's the copy of yesterday's report," said Houlihan, passing Johnny a photocopy of a form that was becoming unnervingly familiar.

"Thanks," Johnny said dryly. "I'll file it with the rest of them."

"You know," Houlihan said, "the information you gave me today could really help us get this guy."

"Sure," said Johnny, "if his name is Nolan it'll be easy. But I'll bet you anything it's not. And," he continued, "I'll bet you anything the folks at Rampart aren't gonna be able tell you a thing about Lynn Nolan's whereabouts."

"Well," Houlihan replied, "that's why we have detectives. And on that note," he said, standing up, leather belt and holster squeaking, "I better get back to the station and get this name to the detective who's working the case."

"Wow," said Johnny. "We have our own detective?"

"Yep—Tom DeVito. You'll probably never see him, but he's the one who went to your HQ, and he'll almost certainly try to pull some info out of Rampart about this Nolan girl. He's working on other stuff, too, of course, but they try to keep the same guys on a case from open to shut. You should still call us deputies, though," he cautioned, "for anything that comes up."

"Sure," Johnny said. "Hopefully we won't have to." _Though that's not seeming likely_, he thought, walking the young deputy to the door.

"Nice to meet you, Houlihan," he said. "If you do see Marco, I don't know, tell him you met me on the job or something. He'll probably get a kick outta that, even considering."

"Probably," said Houlihan. "Have a good afternoon. Thanks for the ice water."

"Welcome. You have a good one, too," said Johnny, closing the door.

~!~!~!~!~

Johnny went for a run after lunch, and then spent the afternoon puttering around the house. One project he wanted to finish before Mike got home was covering over the mail slot in the door, and putting a letter box up by the doorbell. It would probably confuse the postman for a few days, but he'd adjust. He took down the brass flap over the slot in the door, and patched the hole with a piece of wood he cut with a jigsaw. It wouldn't look perfect, but once the wood paste around the edges of the wooden patch had dried, he could sand it down and repaint the whole door.

Just before five o'clock, as Johnny was finishing gluing the patch into the door, Mike's truck pulled into the driveway. Johnny grinned, and held the door open for Mike to come in. Mike grinned right back, and had a glint in his eye that Johnny had learned to recognize and appreciate. He stepped aside to let Mike stride in.

"Hiya! Don't slam the—"

Too late. Mike dropped his bag and cane unceremoniously onto the floor, and had Johnny pressed up against the foyer wall in no time flat. They kissed, urgently, until Johnny finally had to come up for air.

"…door," he finished, catching his breath.

"Missed you, Gage," Mike said huskily, going back to get some more of what he'd hurried inside for. The object of his affections didn't object—not one bit—giving as good as he got, arching forwards so there would be no mistaking his interest in the proceedings.

"You gonna finish this, Stoker, or are ya gonna make me wait till after dinner?"

"Who says it has to be either/or?" Mike said, peeling Johnny away from where he'd put him on the wall, spinning him gently by the hips, and urging him on down the short hallway to the bedroom.

~!~!~!~

Johnny got out of the shower and toweled off and dressed quickly. He found Mike sitting at the bar between the kitchen and the dining area, with a white towel around his waist. Johnny dialed the number of their favorite pizza place, and ordered their usual pie.

"Mmm, now that's a good look on you," Johnny said as he hung up the kitchen extension.

"What is," asked Mike. "The towel, or the 'please do that to me again as soon as possible' look?"

"Both," said Johnny. "It's a good combination."

"So hurry up and get that pizza, Gage."

"Yep—shouldn't take long at all."

"Good."

As Johnny pulled the Rover out of the driveway, he didn't notice the grayish sedan behind him. He didn't notice that it followed him to the corner, out of the neighborhood, and onto the main road. He wasn't thinking about anything at all, except wondering why the hell they didn't have a pizza place that delivered, for cryin' out loud, and why it was already so dim, even though it wasn't late at all. He parked in front of the pizza takeout joint right at the time they'd said the pie would be ready, but decided to first make a quick trip through the alley to the convenience store around the corner. A cat yowled and hissed, fleeing towards the other end of the alley, its hiding place disturbed by Johnny's approach.

The first inkling Johnny had that anything was amiss came when he was grabbed from behind and slammed viciously against the brick wall of the alley behind the pizza shop. One arm was twisted behind him, with his hand jammed hard between his shoulders. A strong hand grabbed him by the hair, and a gloved hand covered his mouth, pressing the side of his face into the wall so hard Johnny could tell exactly where each brick's corner was.

Johnny struggled to free himself, kicking backwards so hard that his attackers were forced to hold his entire body weight up, but to no avail. He couldn't see his assailants, but could tell that at least two pairs of hands held him pinned against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see, even in the dim light of the alley, that the men both wore ski masks.

"You didn't listen," a voice growled right into the ear that was not being ground into the wall. "You were supposed to quit, bail, scram, but you didn't, pretty _Captain_." As the voice said that last word, the hands holding his head pulled him back and slammed him into the bricks again.

"You wanna see us?" said the other voice. "Turn around, and take a look." The hands wheeled him around, slamming his back against the wall this time. Johnny began to take in a deep breath to yell for help, but before he could, the larger of the two figures punched him in the gut, hard, twice, knocking the breath out of him, rendering him helpless. The shorter of the two figures tossed him face down on the ground, and he lay there, unable to move his diaphragm to pull air into his lungs.

As a black sneaker approached his face, all Johnny could think about, absurdly, was that since he couldn't breathe, the dumpster across from him didn't smell at all. The toe of the shoe hit him just over the eyebrow, and his head recoiled with the impact. White sparkles filled his field of vision briefly, but he wasn't even close to passing out from the blow. These guys obviously knew just how to get the effects they wanted—a helpless but conscious victim who would be aware of everything happening, but unable to do a thing about it.

Johnny tried desperately to pull in a breath, even just a little, but whoever delivered the sucker punches had known exactly what he was doing. Still unable to breathe, Johnny felt a kick to his kidney, and another—this time from a sharper toe, maybe a cowboy boot—right into his ribs. He felt a sharp crack in his ribcage, and knew that his next breath, if and when it came, would be agonizing.

"Hey!" a voice shouted, from the other end of the alley, down by the convenience store. Two different sets of feet ran out of the alley towards the pizza store, leaving Johnny lying on the pavement. "Hey! What the hell is going on?" An engine started, and tires squealed out of the parking lot.

More hands, gentle this time, rolled Johnny over, off his belly and onto his side. He involuntarily curled into a fetal position, as if trying to protect his midsection from any further blows.

"Hey, man! Shit, you okay? Oh, fuck, it's you! I know you—you the dude who always gets a six of Bud, and a six of somethin' fancy for the other guy. It's just me—Robert from the beer store, ya know? Don't move—I called the cops soon as I saw them guys pull you into the alley. Can you breathe? You ain't breathin'! Damn, they knocked your air out bad, huh? C'mon, man, just breathe, I don't know that mouth-to-mouth shit."

Just as his vision started to close in, Johnny regained control of his breathing musculature, and finally, finally, heaved in precious air, just in time to prevent himself from passing out. His ribs—he was now sure that at least one was cracked—protested violently at the movement.

"Yeah, buddy, that's it. Breathe that air. You gonna be all right. Can you say somethin'?" Robert looked down at Johnny, shaking his head. "Fuck, man, they got you bad!"

Johnny struggled to roll into a sitting position, but Robert held him down, firmly but gently. "Nuh-uh, you ain't s'posta move hurt folk. You lay back down, and the cops'll be here any second."

"'m okay," Johnny said. "Need to sit up, need some ice, be fine."

"No way I'm lettin' you get up, man. Not s'posta move hurt people, all right?"

Johnny wriggled his wallet out of his pocket, and pulled out his paramedic card. "Look—I know it's okay for me to move, all right? And I gotta sit up to breathe better."

"All right, 'f you say so," Robert said, looking at him with arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. Johnny had a mental flash of a shorter, darker Dr. Brackett, and realized he wouldn't be able to avoid a trip to some ER or another this evening.

Johnny hissed as Robert helped him sit up. He revised his estimate to two cracked ribs, and added a bruised kidney to the list. He put a tentative hand to his forehead, and felt the expected lump forming on his eyebrow.

"Yeah, you gonna have a helluva shiner, dude. I seen 'em kick you—you busted up bad on the insides?"

"Not too bad," Johnny said, having completed his inventory of damage.

"Uh-huh," said Robert. "Says you. I bet you gonna piss blood for a couple days, and you still can't breathe right, can you."

Johnny didn't answer—he was working too hard on each breath to try to convince Robert he was fine. Which, Johnny reflected, he really wasn't. "Fuck," he croaked, feeling a wave of nausea hit him. He really didn't want to puke—the involuntary muscle contractions would be hell on his cracked ribs. He tried to breathe slowly and evenly, hoping to let the nausea pass by without making waves. He focused on the siren he could hear approaching—sheriff, he could tell from the sound—and hoped that dispatch hadn't sent a squad as well. "Shit," he added, cringing at the thought of being scraped off the pavement by one of his colleagues.

The siren drew nearer, and Robert leapt to his feet as the black-and-white car pulled into the parking lot. "Stay right there," he said unnecessarily, as he went to the end of the alley. "In here!" he shouted, waving frantically to the figure emerging from the car. "They busted this dude up real bad!"

Johnny agreed silently, as he finally had no choice but to give in to the nausea. His ribs screamed as his chest and abdominal muscles spasmed, relieving him of nothing but watered-down acid in his stomach. He clutched at his midsection, willing his muscles to unclench, but dry heaves wracked and tore at him for what seemed like hours. When his own body finally stopped dishing out treatment nearly as bad as he'd received at the hands of others a few minutes ago, he let himself fall to his side again, away from the pool of hot acid he'd just spewed out.

"Sir?" a confident voice inquired. "Just hang on, help is on the way."

Johnny turned his face up as best as he could, to see who was talking to him this time.

"Holy crap! It's John Gage!"

Johnny looked up into the face of Deputy Houlihan, who still looked like a teenager to him, and closed his eyes, and practiced breathing.

**TBC**


	28. Admissions

**Chapter 28: Admissions**

Johnny was aware of a hand on his shoulder, just resting there, as he tried to listen to the conversation happening above him.

"But you didn't see the car, and you can't describe the men?" _Houlihan_, Johnny thought. That's whose hand was on his shoulder, from the nearness of the voice.

"No way, man. It was dark early tonight, and both them dudes were in all black."

Another siren was approaching—this time, it was the familiar slow wail of an L.A. County Fire Department rescue squad. "Shit," Johnny managed.

Houlihan misinterpreted. "It's okay—the rescue guys are on their way, all right? They'll fix you up."

Really the last thing Johnny wanted was for any of his colleagues to see him curled up on the ground next to a puddle of his own puke. No, he revised, the _last_ thing he wanted was to have to explain to his colleagues _why_ he'd been beaten up. But then, he got inspiration from Robert.

"I tell ya, officer, I ain't never heard of anyone gettin' mugged around here. But I guess we goin' to the dogs, just like the resta L.A. County," the clerk sighed.

_Mugged. Yeah, that was it_, Johnny thought, rationalizing the experience he just had. _I got mugged. That happens, right?_

"But that was the craziest mugging I ever seen," Robert continued. "You ask me, it looked personal."

Johnny tried to sit up—better for his ego to be found upright than huddled in a heap. He braced his ribs the best he could, and swung himself to a sitting position with Houlihan's help. He heard the familiar sound of compartments on a squad opening up, and knew exactly what equipment whichever paramedics were running Squad 47 that day would be bringing over.

He looked up at Houlihan. "Just mugged for now, okay? Talk later," he croaked.

Houlihan blinked, twice, but understood Johnny's meaning as he saw his eyes on the approaching medics. "All right."

"Sir, I'm Kurt Slavinski, I'm a paramedic with the fire department. Can you tell us what hap—holy shit, Captain Gage?"

"Yep. Two cracked ribs, bruised kidney, shiner. That's it," he said hoarsely.

"All right, Captain—but somebody back there said you weren't breathing."

"Gut punched. Breathing now—see?" He demonstrated. "No loss of consciousness. Not goin' in."

Slavinski looked at his partner. "Well, you know we can't _make_ you go to the hospital. But we really oughta take a look, all right?"

Johnny put himself in the position of the two medics crouching before him, and sighed. "Yeah, all right. I'm still not goin' in on the meat wagon, though."

He stubbornly wrenched his t-shirt over his head as Slavinski reached for his trauma shears to cut his shirt off. That movement was a huge mistake, and left him hunched over, bracing his ribs, and panting.

"Geez, Cap." said Slavinski.

Johnny didn't have the breath to reply, and didn't really have anything to say anyhow. He winced as his colleague gently palpated his rib cage.

"You've got a whopper of a hematoma going there, Cap, right over your left kidney, and it looks like you're right about the cracked ribs. Can't we at least tape you up?"

"'Kay," he said, realizing he'd feel better when that was done.

Slavinski's partner set up the biophone, and contacted their medical base in Santa Clarita. "Henry Mayo, this is Squad 47. We have a male patient, uh..."

"Thirty three," Johnny supplied helpfully.

"Thirty three years old, victim of an assault. Patient is an off-duty paramedic, and states he has two cracked ribs and a bruised kidney. He was reportedly in respiratory arrest due to a blow to the abdomen, but is breathing now, with difficulty, apparently due to the ribs. Vitals are—" Slavinski passed a paper to his partner— "BP, 120/80; pulse 90, respirations 22 and shallow. He has a large hematoma forming on the left flank, and tenderness and swelling but no crepitus over the lower left ribcage, halfway between the midline and the mid-axillary line. Patient also has a large contusion over his left eye, and multiple facial abrasions, but reports no loss of consciousness. Uh, Mayo, patient has already stated he's refusing transport."

"_Understood, 47. Is he allowing treatment_?"

"Affirmative, Mayo; he'll let us tape up his ribs."

A heavy sigh was audible over the radio. "_Proceed, 47. And please remind your stubborn patient that he needs to be seen at a hospital, at his earliest convenience._"

Johnny nodded. "I know the drill," he said. "I'll get in tonight. Prob'ly Rampart."

"Patient states he'll visit Rampart tonight," the second paramedic reported.

"_Copy, 47. Have him sign off, and advise us of any change. Mayo out._"

"All right, let's get you taped up, Cap," said Slavinski.

Johnny reluctantly allowed Slavinski and his partner—B. Rose, Johnny read off the nametag—to do their jobs. Rose popped a chemical cold-pack, and handed it to Johnny to put on his already-obvious black eye, as Slavinski began binding Johnny's rib cage. The squad had blocked the alley, keeping bystanders at bay. Houlihan was busy asking the gawkers and the gapers whether they'd seen the car leaving the scene, but nobody was able to help.

"Dude, I gotta get to the store," Robert said. "I was s'posta be there fifteen minutes ago. You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks, man. I think you—ow—scared those guys off just in time."

"I'll say," Robert nodded. "They looked like they was just gettin' started on you. Hey, you want I should call your friend?"

Johnny considered. He was already late, and surely wasn't going to be driving himself home. But he owed the sheriff a report, and could probably get a ride home from Houlihan. "Thanks, but no—I'll see if I can get a ride with the sheriff."

"Okay," Robert said, shaking his head. "Whatever you say. See ya round, man." He headed up the alley to the convenience store.

"All right, Captain Gage," Slavinski said after another minute or two, "you're all set." He handed him a form on the clipboard. "You know the drill—you're signing off that you refuse transport to the hospital, despite a physician's recommendation that you go in. Your condition could worsen without treatment. You could have broken ribs that could cause a punctured lung, and you could have damage to your kidney." Slavinski paused. "I feel really stupid saying all this, but you know I have to."

"Yep. Keep going."

"If you have shortness of breath, or blood in your urine, or any other worsening of your condition, please seek help immediately. Geez, you know all this stuff, but like I said, I have to say it." Slavinski handed him the form.

"Yep," Johnny said, signing the form and handing the clipboard back. "Good job on the ribs, guys. Nice an' tight."

"Yeah, well, you really oughta get in to the hospital, okay? 'Cause it'd be real bad if you punctured a lung later or somethin'," Slavinski replied.

"Don't worry. Tonight—I promise." Johnny knew that the chances Mike would let him get away with anything stupid—like not visiting the ER—were slim to none, with the odds leaning heavily towards the "none" end of the range.

"You have a way to get there?" Slavinski's face was bright red, and Johnny knew he was only asking that question for the sake of pretending he didn't already know perfectly well that Johnny had a way to get to Rampart.

But Johnny played along nicely. "Yeah."

Slavinski and Rose packed up their equipment, said awkward goodbyes, and pulled the squad out of the alley. Houlihan shooed the few remaining bystanders away, and returned to the alley. Johnny wrestled his shirt back over his head, which, with the tape on his definitely fractured ribs, was less painful than removing the shirt had been. But the movements still put him on the brink of puking again, so he sat there and breathed shallowly for a few seconds while he waited for Houlihan to return.

"Well, Captain," said Houlihan, "looks like it's just you and me. What do you say we get you home, and have a chat about what happened just now?"

"All right. Gotta get up, first," Johnny realized, dismayed.

"Okay—how do we do this?" Houlihan asked.

Johnny reached his right hand up—the hand on the side without the broken ribs. "Just pull—fast."

He couldn't restrain a yelp as the young deputy hauled him to his feet. "Sorry," Houlihan said.

"Had to be done," Johnny said. He looked at the Rover in the parking lot. "Guess I'll get that picked up tomorrow," he noted.

"Need anything out of it before I get you home?" Houlihan asked.

"No, I have—shit. The pizza. That's what I came here for—the pizza place there. I'll go grab it, be right back."

"You think you're carrying a pizza?" Houlihan asked, shaking his head. "C'mon, I'll give you a hand. See if they saw anything, too."

The unlikely pair trooped into the pizza shop, where the teenaged girl at the register immediately looked up in alarm. "Geez," she said. "Police brutality, or what?"

"Yeah, miss, I beat him up, and now we're getting pizza. Actually, he just got attacked in your alley. Two guys. You see anything unusual?"

The girl shrugged. "Heard a car peel out of the lot about, oh, fifteen minutes ago. Didn't see nothin'." She looked back and forth between the two men. "You guys want anything, or what?"

"Gage," Johnny said. "I guess I'm late picking up my pie."

"Oh, yeah," said the girl. "I was just about to give up on you. Called the number you left—got your machine."

"Mike's prob'ly shittin' himself by now," Johnny realized. "Uh, c'n I use your phone real quick?"

"Pay phone's outside," the girl said. Houlihan glared at her sternly, and she rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. "Fine," she said, handing the phone across the counter to Johnny.

Mike answered right away. "_Hello_?"

"Yeah, it's me. I'm on my way home—I, uh, ran into our friends."

"_What_?"

"Look—I'm okay, uh, mostly. Sheriff's bringing me home."

"_Jesus, Johnny, what happened?_"

"They kinda, um, beat me up a little…"

"_Geez, can't I come get you, babe?_"

Houlihan motioned for Johnny to pass him the phone. "Mr. Stoker? This is Deputy Houlihan with the L.A. County Sheriff's Department. I'm here already; I can get him home with no problem. I need to take a report anyhow."

"_Thanks, Deputy. Uh, how bad is he actually hurt? He said 'a little,' but he'd say that for, I don't know, pretty much anything where he could still talk_."

Houlihan sensed a domestic dispute coming on, and wisely stepped out of the way. "He's up and walking, but he needs to get seen at the hospital tonight. We're on our way, all right?"

"_Okay. Thanks, officer._"

Johnny pulled a twenty out of his wallet, and the girl shoved the pizza across the counter and gave him his change. "Not our fault it's cold," she said.

"Yeah, no shit," Johnny said._ Definitely time to find a place that delivers,_ he thought.

Houlihan picked up the pizza, and they left the store. The pizza rode in the trunk, and Johnny got the front seat of the black-and-white.

They didn't talk on the five-minute drive back to Harrison Street. Johnny held the rapidly-warming cold pack to his eye, and wished for something in the opiate family to magically appear in his system. Mike was sitting on the doorstep when Houlihan pulled the car into the driveway. He opened the passenger-side door of the black and white sedan as soon as it had pulled to a stop, and knelt at the door of the car to get a look at Johnny.

"Oh god, what'd they do to you? Here, lemme help you get out—" Johnny allowed Mike to help him out of the car. He stood shakily at the edge of the driveway for a minute while Mike looked him over. "You're all hunched over—what'd they do, babe? I'm gonna fucking kill them, I swear!" Mike looked nervously at the deputy, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

"Let's go in, all right?" said Houlihan, ignoring Mike's angry threat. He pulled the pizza out of the trunk, and motioned towards the front door. Mike opened the door, and followed Johnny and Houlihan inside. Johnny propped himself on a bar stool at the kitchen counter. Mike headed straight for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, seeing that Johnny was going to need something from their considerable stash of painkillers.

"Don't you want to sit somewhere more comfortable?" Houlihan asked.

"Nope," Johnny said. "Anything lower is just gonna be harder to get up from later." He opened the pizza box. "Want some?"

"No thanks. I ate right before I got the call from the convenience store guy."

Johnny wasn't really all that hungry, but knew the kind of painkillers he had in mind would be disastrous on an empty stomach, so he worked his way through most of a piece of cold mushroom and black olive pizza before Mike returned with three pill bottles for him to choose from. Mike set the bottles down on the counter in front of Johnny, went to the fridge, and poured a glass of milk for Johnny to wash his chosen medication down with.

"Thanks," said Johnny. He picked three round white tablets out of a bottle, and chased them down with the milk.

Mike inspected the bottle Johnny had selected the pills from. "Uh oh. Going straight for the big guns, huh?"

"Yeah," Johnny admitted. "Hurts pretty bad."

Mike ignored the pizza, and ignored the deputy standing in his dining room. "What'd they do, babe?" he repeated, voice shaking this time.

Johnny sighed. "Put me up against the wall, punched me in the gut—you know, the kind of punch that knocks your wind out, and you wonder if you're ever gonna breathe again—and threw me down in the alley and kicked me a few times. Eye, ribs, kidney," he summarized.

"Broken ribs? Aw, shit—shouldn't you get x-rayed?"

"Just cracked," Johnny amended. "Squad 47 guys taped 'em up real good."

Mike laughed, despite himself. "They recognize you?"

Johnny nodded.

"Bet they were good and nervous, huh?"

"Mostly 'cause I wouldn't go in."

"You're going in, you know," Mike added.

"Yeah, I know I'm goin' in."

"When?"

"Soon as the meds kick in, you get to take me to Rampart."

Mike nodded. "Okay," he said, apparently satisfied.

Houlihan cleared his throat, to remind the two men that he was still there.

"Uh, Captain Gage, I do need to get a statement from you while your head is still clear."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Pull up a stool. You sure you don't want a slice? Or some water or something?"

"I wouldn't say no to some ice water," Houlihan replied.

"I'll get it," said Mike, as if finally noticing the deputy. "Uh, sorry—I forgot to introduce myself. Mike Stoker."

"Deputy Ben Houlihan. I met Mr. Gage this afternoon, when I was dropping off a report."

"He's Marco's cousin," Johnny added. "Sort of."

Mike stared at Houlihan. "No shit? Wow. Small town. Sort of."

Houlihan pulled out his notebook, and started with his interview. Mike placed a glass of ice water in front of him, and then put the rest of the pizza in the oven on a baking sheet. He took the stool next to Johnny, on the side opposite Houlihan.

"Okay—I've heard some of this already, but let's do it in order. First, how many guys were there?" Houlihan asked.

"Two," Johnny answered succinctly. "I didn't get a good look at either one of 'em—they both had those ski masks on, but one was about my height and build, and the other was maybe five eight, five nine, and stockier. I could see around the eye holes of the masks that they were both white. The tall guy had blue eyes, and the other guy had dark eyes. They both had on all black, and the shorter guy had black sneakers, and the taller guy I think maybe had cowboy boots."

Houlihan wrote this all down. "Can you describe the sequence of events for me, starting from when you first noticed anything unusual?"

Johnny shook his head. "Didn't notice a thing till I got shoved up against the wall in the alley. Makes me wonder, how did they know I was there? I mean, they were definitely after _me_, from what they said—it wasn't a random thing."

"What did they say?" Houlihan asked. "As close as you can remember to the original wording."

"Uh, the taller guy said that I was supposed to scram, quit, bail, but that I didn't listen to them. He called me Captain," Johnny said, leaving out the "pretty" that he remembered perfectly well, "so I'm sure they knew who I was. The other guy said I could look at them all I wanted, just before he gut punched me. I guess he was pretty confident that I wouldn't recognize them." Johnny didn't object as Mike quietly and discreetly moved his stool closer, so their hips and legs touched under the counter.

"Did either man look familiar?"

"No," Johnny said slowly, "but I think—I wouldn't swear to it—but I _think_ the taller guy was the one on the answering machine messages. He had that same kind of, I dunno, cheerfully sarcastic voice."

"Okay, then what?" Houlihan asked, still writing.

Johnny fiddled with a piece of pizza crust, and didn't look at anyone. "The taller guy, uh, punched me in the gut real hard, twice. He knew exactly what he was doing, too—popped me right in the solar plexus, just where all the nerves for the breathing muscles are. They tossed me on the ground once I couldn't breathe any more, and the guy with the sneakers—the shorter guy—kicked me in the face and the other guy got my ribs real hard, and I, uh, don't know which one kicked me in the kidney." Johnny looked up at Mike's sharp intake of breath during his narrative, and saw Mike's hands clenched in tight fists, knuckles white, on the counter. He quietly took one of Mike's hands with his own, pulled it under the counter, and wrapped it tightly in both of his hands.

"Then what?" Houlihan prompted.

"Someone shouted from the other end of the alley—Robert, I guess—and they took off. I didn't see the car."

"Robert—this is Robert Jefferson, the clerk from the convenience store who called us in the first place?"

"Yeah—I didn't know his full name till tonight, but we go there all the time, so I knew who he was, and he recognized me too. I guess he kinda saved my ass," Johnny said. "I don't think those guys were done with me."

"And you're sure he wasn't one of the assailants?"

"What?" Johnny looked up. "No. No way. He was definitely at the other end of the alley, and when he yelled, they took off. Plus, the two guys were definitely white. Like I said, he saved my sorry ass."

"All right, okay," Houlihan said. "I just have to check, you know? Sometimes an assailant will come back as a rescuer, to stay in on the action, admire his work, so to speak."

"Not a chance," Johnny repeated. "He's totally the wrong build to be either of those guys, anyhow."

"Anything else you can add?" Houlihan asked.

"No. I'm just really wondering, though, how they knew I'd be near that alley, is all."

Houlihan flipped his notebook closed. "Do either of you recall seeing any unfamiliar vehicles parked on the street this afternoon or evening?"

Johnny thought for a second. "I was working on the front door this afternoon, outside, and I for sure woulda noticed any strange cars sittin' around. Kinda got the jitters, ya know?"

"Mr. Stoker? You were at work today, correct?"

"Yeah, got home around five, maybe a quarter till. I didn't notice anything unusual, but I wasn't really looking. Then we were, uh, inside, mostly at the back of the house, until Johnny went out for the pizza, at like what, six fifteen or so?"

Johnny shrugged, and winced. "'Bout that."

"That fits," said Houlihan. "Dispatch logged the call from Mr. Jefferson at 1832." Houlihan looked out the front windows, and then out the kitchen door, frowning.

"Captain Gage," he said, "do you recall whether you left from the front door, or whether you could've left from the side door?"

"Uh, call me Johnny," he answered, "and definitely the side door—I remember, 'cause the Rover was parked in the driveway, so I just went out the kitchen door."

"So you might not have noticed," Houlihan said slowly, "if there was a car parked in front of the next house over."

"Probably not," Johnny admitted.

"And a car parked there wouldn't be visible through the living room windows," Mike added. "And I was in the kitchen when he left, anyhow, and you can't see anything from here."

"And you didn't see any cars following Captain Gage?"

"No—I think I was in the back of the house right after he left—bedroom, or maybe bathroom."

Houlihan frowned. "I think I'm going to pay a visit to your sharp-eyed neighbor who took down the plate number the other day. Mrs. Daniels?"

"That's right," said Mike. "If anyone saw anything, it'd be her—and her living room window is right across from our front door, so she would've been able to see anything parked in front of the house."

But Houlihan didn't need to cross the street—just then, the doorbell rang, and Mike jumped up to answer, limping slightly on his way to the door, and letting Mrs. Daniels in.

"Come in, Mrs. Daniels," Mike said. "Deputy Houlihan here was just about to come ask you something."

"Well, I was just about to come tell him something," Mrs. Daniels said. "Good Lord," she said, as Johnny turned around. "Now that didn't happen all on its own," she said disapprovingly, looking at his swollen and rapidly blackening eye.

"No, ma'am," Johnny replied. "Had some help with that. That's why the sheriff is here. Again."

"What I came to say, Deputy, was just a while ago when young John here pulled his big white vehicle out of the driveway, there was a gray—or maybe silver—car that started up and trailed right along behind him. I didn't get the plates, this time, but it was a new car, very shiny—one of those little Japanese ones that are so popular now. Starts with an "H," I think."

"Honda?" asked Houlihan.

Mrs. Daniels snapped her fingers. "That's the one. Logo's a big H inside a sort of roundish rectangle, right? That's what it was. Not a little one where the back window pops open, either—one of those bigger ones, with all four doors on it. Still a smallish car, though."

"If someone brought some pictures by later," asked Houlihan, "do you think you could pick it out from a group?"

"Sure," said Mrs. Daniels. "Any time before ten p.m."

"Thanks, Mrs. D.," Johnny said.

"You're welcome," she replied. She looked at Mike. "You'd best get him to a doctor, if you don't mind my saying."

"Yes, ma'am," said Mike. "That's next on tonight's menu."

"Uh, I'm going to walk Mrs. Daniels back to her house, and then get this report filed," said Houlihan.

"Thanks, man," Johnny waved vaguely. "And thanks for scrapin' me off the ground. Yer a pal. You sure you don' wan' some pizza? 'Cause there's plenny, right Mikey?"

Mike and Houlihan exchanged glances. "Uh, you're welcome. But no, I need to get on my way. I'd say have a good evening, but, well."

"Yeah, sucks, don't it. 'S always hard to know what to say when you're leavin' someone in a pile of shit. Oops. Sorry, Mrs. D. What I always say is, you know, sorry 'bout what happened, or somethin' like that."

"Well, I _am_ sorry about what happened. Hopefully next time I see you, it'll be at a Lopez fiesta, and not in an alley."

"Ya know what? You're all right, Houlihan. Nineteen, maybe, but all right."

"All right, Gage, let the man off easy, okay?" said Mike. "Thanks, Mrs. D., and thanks, Deputy," he said, showing them out the door. "I have a patient to get to the hospital." He closed the door, and returned to the kitchen.

"I don' wanna go," said Johnny.

"You're going," said Mike. "We're having some pizza—warm, this time—and then we're going to Rampart. In fact, I'm going to call them to let them know I'm bringing them a present."

"I don' needa go, Mikey. I'm feelin' a lot better already."

"That's cause you're high on oxycodone," Mike said reasonably, putting a plate with two slices of pizza in front of Johnny, along with another glass of milk. "You still have broken ribs."

"Oh, yeah. Prolly gonna piss blood, too," he scowled. "Fuckin' bastards. I didn't even get one lick in, they got me so fast."

"Like you said, they knew what they were doing."

"Yeah, but Mikey? I shoulda been better, I shoulda not got beat up so bad. I tried—_man_, I tried—but they got me anyhow, didn't they."

"Well, there _were_ two of 'em."

"An' ya know what else?"

"What, Johnny," Mike replied patiently.

"The big guy? He called me 'pretty Captain.' I didn't tell the cop that, did I?"

"No."

"Was it wrong, to leave that out?"

"I don't think it matters."

"'Cause I really didn' wanna say it."

Johnny ate another slice of pizza, while Mike did the same. Mike watched Johnny carefully the entire time, not sure what he was keeping an eye on, but doing so nonetheless.

"D'you think I'm pretty?"

_Jesus,_ Mike thought. "I wouldn't use that exact word—that's way too, um, feminine for you."

"What word _wouldja_ use then?"

"Uh, are you done with your pizza?"

"Huh?" Johnny looked down at his plate. "Oh. Yeah."

"Me too. So let's get you down to Rampart, all right, before they get all the late-night crazies."

"Okay." He looked down at his shorts and t-shirt. "C'n I go like this?"

"Last time I checked, there wasn't a dress code. But they do keep it kinda cold in there—you want some pants?"

"I guess." He made no move to get up and change.

"You know what? I think shorts'll be fine, Johnny. C'mon, let's get you in the truck."

Mike helped Johnny out to the truck, and got him into the passenger's seat. He reached over to buckle the shoulder belt.

"This thing kinda hurts," Johnny said, frowning at the seat belt.

"I know, believe me, I remember how a seat belt feels on sore ribs, but you gotta wear it."

"Okay."

Mike sat in the driver's seat, and started the truck. Just then, he realized he'd forgotten to call ahead. "Shoot," he said.

"What?"

"Forgot to call Rampart to tell 'em you were coming."

"It's okay. You don't need an appointment for the ER."

"True," said Mike, backing out of the driveway.

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

"You know what I don't get?" Johnny asked suddenly.

"What, babe."

"What I don't get, is, why should anyone care who sleeps with who? Who's in love with who? Who lives with who? I mean, whose business is it anyhow? Why does anyone even give a shit about us being together? Does it make me less of a good fireman? Make you any worse of an arson guy? I don't think so—prob'ly better, actually—at least me, that is. So why are these assholes messin' with us?"

"I don't have a good answer for you on that one," Mike admitted.

"Well why not? You're supposed to be the smart one."

"Uh, what do you mean by that?" Mike asked, and immediately realized that was a mistake.

"Okay, so here's how I see it: you're waaaaay smarter than me."

Mike waited for more explanation, but apparently that was the depth and breadth of what Johnny had to say on the topic in his current condition. "I wouldn't say that," Mike said.

"Well I would," Johnny said. "So why? _Why?_"

Mike sighed, realizing Johnny wasn't going to just let this one go. "All right—I think some people have to have someone they can hate. Maybe it's because they really hate themselves, and have to let it out somehow. Or maybe they feel small, and have to hate someone else to make themselves feel bigger. And there are less and less people that it's okay to hate. So for these guys, this year, it's us."

"See?" Johnny replied. "I told you so. I knew you'd know."

Mike decided to see what would happen if he remained silent. Sure enough, Johnny dozed off for thirty minutes or so—most of the rest of the way to Rampart in the light evening traffic. When they got off the freeway, and stopped at a red light, Johnny woke with a start.

"So?"

"Uh, so what?" Mike asked, not sure what he was about to get himself into.

"So what word _would_ you use?" Johnny asked, suddenly back to the "pretty" topic.

Mike decided to let Johnny help him get out of this one. "I don't know, Johnny. What word would you _like_ me to use?"

Johnny scrunched his brow in thought. "Well, sometimes when we're, you know, and you're all talky—and damn, I love that, Mikey—sometimes, you say I'm beautiful, or gorgeous. And those words are okay. Plus you say I'm hot. That's _definitely_ okay. So I don't really know why 'pretty' sounds so bad."

"How 'bout if we stick with those other words, then, just between the two of us?"

"'Kay."

Johnny closed his eyes for the rest of the way to Rampart, opening them once again when Mike turned the engine off in the ER parking lot.

"And you know what else?" Johnny picked up right where he'd left off.

"What else, hon?"

"You're all those words, too."

"Uh, glad you think so."

"No, really. You're beautiful, and gorgeous, and definitely hot."

"Okay," laughed Mike. "Really, I'm glad you think so, but we're kinda right in the parking lot at Rampart, all right? So let's get out, and be serious for a little while."

"I _was_ bein' serious."

"Okay, so that's the wrong word, then. Discreet. How about that?"

"Oh. Like I should shut up?"

"No, like you should put the brakes on a little bit, is all."

"They're not workin', Mikey." Johnny shook his head. "No brakes. Nada. Zip."

"All right. I'll be your brakes."

"Okay." Johnny fumbled with his seat belt, as Mike walked around to the other side of the truck.

"C'mon. Lemme help you get out."

"I think maybe I took too mucha that stuff," Johnny admitted.

"Maybe, yeah. The bottle did say one to two tablets, and I'm pretty sure you took three."

"I'm pretty sure I took three, too, hon." He laughed, hugging himself around his ribs. "Three. Two. One. Get it?"

"Oh, lord."

"Whoops. Brakes, right?"

"Right," said Mike, steering Johnny into the ER entrance towards the desk.

They didn't make it ten steps into the building before a familiar voice stopped Johnny in his tracks. "Well, Johnny Gage, as I live and breathe!"

Johnny spun around, and doubled over and clutched his ribs as the movement caught him by surprise. "Hiya, Dix," he croaked.

"I guess this isn't a social call, is it," Dixie pronounced after looking him over for two seconds.

"Hi, Dixie," said Mike. "No, I'm afraid it's not. Looks like he's got some cracked ribs, maybe a bruised kidney, too, he thinks."

"Plus a beaut of a shiner," Dixie said. "You look like you went ten rounds with a pro."

"Definitely pros," said Johnny, "but only one round. Two guys, though. In an alley. Got scraped up by a twelve-year-old sheriff's deputy and two fourteen-year-old paramedics from 47s."

"Brakes," Mike muttered, catching Johnny as he wobbled a bit.

"All right, Johnny," said Dixie, "we're not busy at all right now, so why don't you just come on in to Treatment Four, right here."

"Ooh, Treatment Four, my favorite! I love the—"

"Brakes, Gage. Brakes," Mike repeated, steering him into the room. He fished the pill bottle out of his pocket and handed it to Dixie. "He took three of these, a little over an hour ago."

Dixie looked at the bottle, and looked back up at Mike's serious eyes. "Voluntarily?"

Mike looked back at her, appearing confused. "Uh, yeah. I got out these, and some Tylenol 3, and some aspirin, and he picked out these and downed three of 'em."

"Well, it was hurting. A lot," Johnny said petulantly.

"How'd you get him to do that?" Dixie asked.

"Uh, I didn't." Mike still looked confused. "He just took 'em."

"Huh," said Dixie. "Wait'll Kel hears _that_."

"What?" Mike asked, dying to be let in on the secret.

"Getting this fellow to take pain meds? Well, let's just say we sometimes had to go the IV route even though it wasn't strictly necessary, just because he was so resistant to actively taking anything that made him feel 'silly and foggy,' as he would put it. So, taking this stuff? And maybe even a little too much of it, and voluntarily?" Dixie shook her head. "That's a new and different John Gage."

"Honest, I don't think I did anything special," Mike said.

Dixie shook her head again. "Wow. Okay, Johnny—you know the drill. Up on the table, shirt off. Mike, maybe you can help him with that, while I page Dr. Brackett."

Mike helped Johnny off with his t-shirt, moving his arms as little as possible.

"You've definitely got some nasty bruising there in your left kidney area, but I can't see what's going on under all the tape they've got on your ribs."

"Aw, Dix, x-rays'll see right through the tape, right? Can't we just leave it on? It smarts like a sonofabitch when you take it off, you know."

"We'll see what Kel says, all right?" She handed Johnny a plastic cup with a lid, and pointed to the bathroom attached to the treatment room. "Fill 'er up, pal."

"Okay," said Johnny, "but you have to go out to the hall, or I won't be able to do it."

"All right," said Dixie. "Mike, why don't you come get me when he's done, all right?"

"Sure thing." Mike helped Johnny get down from the table, and ushered him into the bathroom as Dixie waited in the hallway.

"Holy shit," Johnny announced.

"What?" Mike said, alarmed.

"Lotsa blood in my pee. Like, a lot. You wanna see?"

Mike took a deep breath, trying to steady his stomach. "Uh, no thanks."

"Oops—right. Course ya don't." Mike heard the toilet flushing, and then the faucet running, and Johnny emerged, holding the plastic cup, which was full of what looked to Mike like something that really ought not to happen.

Mike rushed out to the hallway. "He's done," he announced to Dixie, who was standing next to Dr. Brackett.

"You all right there, Mike?" Dixie asked.

"Uh, lotta blood in that pee," he said. "I don't do so well with that kind of thing."

"You need to wait out here?" she asked.

"No," said Mike. "Just, if someone could get rid of the, uh, sample, that'd be good."

"No problem," said Dixie, going back into the room and emerging with the jar, discreetly covered with a towel. "He's all yours, Kel."

Mike and Dr. Brackett entered the treatment room, to find Johnny sitting hunched over on the exam table.

"Hi, Doc," he uttered between clenched teeth.

"Hello, Johnny. Sounds like you got quite the working over," Brackett said.

"Short, but intense," Johnny said. "Two guys, too. And lemme tell ya—if you can't breathe, you can't fight back."

"Nobody's suggesting you should've been able to, Johnny," Mike said.

"Yeah, well, I still feel dumb about it."

"I got mugged, once," confessed Dr. Brackett. "About ten years ago. I ended up with a shiner like yours—had to take three weeks off work, since nobody in the ER wants to see a doctor with a black eye."

"I wish this was just a mugging," Johnny complained. "Somehow it's worse, I guess, when it's personal."

"Personal?" Brackett's eyebrows rose and met between his eyes.

"Yeah. Um, maybe Mike can explain while I'm getting x-rays?" Johnny's eyes met Mike's, desperately seeking a way out.

"Sure, Johnny, that's fine," Brackett answered, also realizing Johnny was suddenly close to the end of his emotional rope. "Let's get you over to x-ray right away." He summoned an orderly, and Johnny was whisked off to radiology, leaving Mike with Dr. Brackett.

"So what's this all about? Why would someone have it in for Johnny?" Brackett queried.

Mike took a deep breath, and explained as concisely as he could what had been happening over the last week. "And, Doc—one more thing. A detective from the county sheriff's office is gonna be asking some questions over here about this woman named Lynn Nolan—she and Johnny dated for a while a few years back, and she went kind of nuts, and she's got a relative in the fire department who might very well be behind all this bullshit."

"Lynn Nolan—the name doesn't ring a bell," Brackett said. "Wait, though—was she the one who was leaving him presents all the time?"

"Yeah, that sounds like her," Mike said. "They wanna know how to find her, so they can figure out whether her brother or cousin or whoever is behind all this."

Brackett rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You know," he said slowly, "the sheriff won't have any luck in our Personnel department without a warrant, which I doubt they could get at this point. But I'll see if I can get anything out of them—I'm not above being sneaky, and I know some other people who'd be happy to help out, too."

"Thanks, Doc," said Mike. "But don't get yourself in any trouble on our account, all right?"

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'll get by. You have to learn to fly under the radar around here sometimes if you want to get things done." Brackett paused. "And speaking of getting things done—good job getting Johnny to take pain medication. What's your secret?"

Mike shrugged. "I didn't know he had a problem with that. But I guess," he hesitated a bit, and then continued— "I guess he trusts me enough to let his guard down."

"Well, Mike—I have to say, you're the first person I've ever heard of him trusting that much. Almost nobody can resist Dixie—and she got as close to him as I've ever seen, but Johnny still wouldn't let go, not even for her."

"I kind of knew, getting together with him, that trust would be a big thing. So I guess you could say it's something we've been working on. And, speaking of trust, I think that's really all I want to go into about this, actually. No offense, Doc, but that's all I've got to say."

"None taken," Brackett said. He got the picture, though—the untrusting, extremely private man he knew John Gage to be fit perfectly with the reserved, thoughtful person he was learning that Mike was. And he understood that one thing Johnny trusted Mike with was not talking about him when he wasn't around. So he changed the subject to a safer topic.

"How's the leg doing, Mike? Joe said he saw you and Johnny over the weekend, but didn't go into details."

"It's okay." He filled Brackett in on the story of the loose screw.

"If you want, I can look at those stitches while we're waiting for Johnny's x-rays."

"Sure, thanks." Mike hopped up on the exam table and peeled the bandage off. Dr. Brackett examined the stitches carefully, and put on a new bandage.

"Looks fine," he said. "They can come out in two or three days—no need to come all the way here, any office can do it for you."

"Well, I work over at HQ, so I'll probably pop back in here anyhow," said Mike. "Otherwise, I'm afraid Johnny would want to just do it himself, and _that's_ not happening."

Predictably, the door swung open, and Dixie backed in with Johnny in the wheelchair. She handed Dr. Brackett an envelope of x-rays, and a sheet from the lab. "What would I wanna do that's not happening? Besides what we were _supposed_ to do after dinner."

"Geez. Taking my stitches out yourself," said Mike, blushing.

"Oh."

Johnny craned his neck to see the x-rays that Dr. Brackett had just put up on the light box.

"Shoot," he said. "It's three of 'em, ain't it."

"Seven, eight, and nine," confirmed Dr. Brackett. "Just cracked—no complete fractures, luckily."

"So what do we do with those, Doc?" Mike asked.

"I'll get to that in a minute—but first I want to tackle the more serious issue," Brackett continued. "That kidney is bleeding a lot—I wasn't happy with the lab report at all."

Johnny's face fell. "You're gonna make me stay, aren't you."

"Johnny, think about your history, here. It's your left kidney—and when you ruptured your spleen a few years ago, that kidney took damage then, too. Not enough to have to remove it, but enough that there's certainly some scarring. So I'm afraid I do want to keep you at for least twenty-four hours, to monitor the bleeding. And to do that properly, we have to monitor fluid intake and output as well."

"Shit," Johnny said flatly.

"Please, Johnny—listen to the Doc, all right?" Mike pleaded.

"I'm not refusin'," Johnny said, "just complainin'. I figgered I'd hafta stay as soon as I saw my pee was half blood. Oops, sorry, Mikey. So okay, I'm not happy about it, but I know I gotta stay. Feel like shit anyhow," he grumbled.

"I guess I'll go back home and get you some things, all right?" Mike said quietly.

"Yeah. Thanks, Mikey." Johnny frowned. "But you know what?"

"What?"

"I really think you oughta not stay at the house tonight, okay? These guys are gettin' dirtier and dirtier, and I don't like it."

"Johnny," Mike said patiently, "we talked about this. We cave, they win."

"Yeah, but you know what? I'm gonna play the selfish card now. I won't be able to sleep if I know you're at home by yourself. So, what we're gonna do is, I'm gonna call Roy, and see if you can stay with them while I'm stuck here. They live halfway between Rampart and HQ anyhow, so it's a good deal, Mike," Johnny said. "And by the time you're back here with some stuff for me, and some stuff for yourself, I'll have it all worked out."

Mike looked at his feet, and sighed heavily. "Okay. I guess you're right. I don't like caving in, though."

"Think of it this way," Johnny said, sounding more lucid by the minute. "You're not giving in to _them_—you're giving in to irresistible ol' _me_. That's not so bad, is it?"

"No." Mike couldn't help smiling. "It's not. Okay. I'll do it—for you."

"I'll tell you what," said Dixie. "I'll take care of all the phone calls, okay? And by the time you get back here, Mike, you'll have a place to stay, and you can tuck Johnny in for the night, and everyone can get some rest. All right?"

"Yeah," said Mike. "Thanks."

"Thanks, Dix. You're the best," Johnny added. And he frowned again. "But boy, this was _not_ how this evening was supposed to go. I was supposed to get the pizza, is all, and then we were gonna have a nice, quiet dinner, and a _really_ nice evening, and now it all just sucks."

**TBC**


	29. Favors

**Chapter 29: Favors**

Roy DeSoto was reading a magazine, enjoying some quiet time to himself, while Joanne was having a rare evening out with a friend and the kids were miraculously in bed a bit on the early side. He was planning on turning in shortly, as he had a shift in the morning. Just as he reluctantly put his magazine down, trying to follow the advice he gave to his kids about getting to bed at a sensible time so you wouldn't be sorry on a school morning, the phone rang. He instantly felt anxious—it wasn't terribly late, only nine o'clock or so, but most people they knew worked on fairly early schedules, and didn't call past early evening. So, it was with some mild anxiety that he picked up the phone on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"_Roy? It's Dixie McCall—and I promise, it's nothing really serious._"

"Hi, Dixie—what's going on?"

"_Well, Johnny and Mike kind of need a favor._"

Roy's mind spun—he'd heard about Mike's setback with the screws, and he'd heard about the troubles they'd been having. And of course, there was always the possibility that his ex-partner had gotten hurt on the job. "Okay—what happened? What can I do?"

"_Well_," Dixie hesitated slightly, not knowing how much of the story Roy knew. "_Well, Johnny's in for observation, to start with. He took a blow to the kidney, and cracked a couple ribs, and he's passing enough blood that we need to keep an eye on him for a little while._"

"Geez," said Roy. "What happened? B-shift was on today, so it wasn't on the job, was it?"

"_No_," Dixie replied, again hesitating. "_Roy, some thugs beat him up in an alley this evening. He and Mike are pretty upset about it—I don't know how much you've talked to Johnny recently, but …_"

"I talked to him enough to get a nasty picture," Roy said, fury building. "I heard about the tires, and the letter, and the phone messages, and some things that happened at Mike's office. But this is a whole new level. Is it the same people?"

"_Johnny's pretty sure it is, from what they said to him, which he isn't repeating._"

"Dix," Roy began, but found himself unable to continue speaking.

"_He's going to be fine,_" Dixie said soothingly. "_You know I wouldn't say that if it weren't true. Kel just wants to make sure that the bleeding in the kidney subsides before sending him home, all right?_"

"Yeah," said Roy, though inside, he was screaming '_no, it's not all right, damn it!_' "But Dix, I'm home alone with the kids—Joanne's gonna be out till late, and I can't come in to Rampart. I just can't."

"_It's okay, Roy—Johnny's resting comfortably. I actually called you for a different favor—Johnny doesn't want Mike staying at home. Not with those thugs still out there. And to be honest, Roy, I'm afraid I agree with Johnny on this one. These guys have crossed the line into blatant violence._"

"Mike can absolutely stay here," said Roy. "I"ll make up the bed in the spare room, and it's all his. Or theirs, when Johnny gets out."

Roy could hear Dixie's sigh of relief over the line. "_That's great, Roy. It might be a while till he gets to your place—he went home to pick up some things for Johnny and himself, and he's coming by here __again next, of course—but thanks. I'll send him over as soon as I can._"

"I'll be here. And if Joanne were home, I'd come over right now. And I have a shift tomorrow, so I probably won't make it in. I'll be sure to call sometime tomorrow, though."

"_He'll appreciate that. I'm guessing he's not going to want to talk about any of the things that've been going on, though._"

"No," Roy replied, "I'm sure he won't. But we always seem to find plenty to talk about."

"_Mike had a hard time getting him to shut up, actually, so you'll probably have some interesting conversations if he's still on painkillers._"

"Oh, definitely," Roy said. "I'll count on it. Anyhow—say hi to Johnny if you see him again this evening, and thanks for not hesitating to call—you know Jo and I will always help out with any of the guys."

"_Thanks for helping, Roy. I'll talk to you later_."

Roy put down the phone, and went upstairs to start making up the bed in the spare room. While he was working, he thought about how he could possibly explain to his teenaged son and eleven-year-old daughter what had happened. He had sworn early on never to lie to his children, but he also didn't want to expose them to such ugliness. He sighed, passing the doors to their rooms. Better they know an ugly truth at a tender age, he thought, than learn as adults that their parents were too afraid to talk to them about real life.

~!~!~!~!~

Mike pulled the truck up to the house, and left the headlights on to light a path as he went to the front door. He had very mixed feelings about not staying at his own house for the night. On the one hand, he truly believed that by staying elsewhere, he was somehow letting those bastards win. But on the other hand, he knew he wouldn't sleep a wink, and, excessive anxiety aside, it wasn't out of the question that Johnny's attackers might not be done for the day.

Once inside, Mike turned the AC off, so the empty house wouldn't be sucking down energy. He gathered some comfortable hospital wear, toiletries, and some light reading for Johnny, and packed a couple days' worth of things for himself. He grabbed his cane, which he'd forgotten earlier, and was regretting not having had. He checked all the doors and windows, but stopped himself from checking them again. He loaded the bags into the truck, got in, and started the truck. The dashboard clock read 9:25.

Mike looked across the street at Mrs. Daniels' house, and turned the truck off again. She'd told the deputy she'd be up till ten, and there were still lights on in her house. Mike got out of the truck, walked across the street, and rang the bell.

Mike saw the peephole darken, and then brighten again. The door opened, and Mrs. Daniels' concerned face appeared.

"Mike? Come in. What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm really sorry to bother you at this hour, but I just wanted to let you know a couple things. They're keeping Johnny at the hospital for a little while—he'd kill me if I told you the details, but they need to keep an eye on him for a bit, and for once he's not making a fuss about it."

"Oh, the poor dear! Even though I don't know him all that well, I'd bet he just hates it there."

"You've got that absolutely right. He should be fine—but he's in a lot of pain, and they need to see a few lab results get better before he can come home."

"Oh, my. Well, please send him my best. Will he still be there tomorrow? I'll take him some food—I know he likes to keep well fed, and hospital food doesn't do that, now, does it?"

"No, ma'am, it sure doesn't. He's at Rampart—it's a little farther than Henry Mayo up in Santa Clarita, but he knows the people there, so it's a little easier for him."

"Now, I hope you're going to tell me that you're staying somewhere else tonight, young man," Mrs. Daniels said.

"I am," Mike admitted. "To be honest, I don't like the idea of leaving, but I like the idea of sticking around even less, so there we are."

"Why don't you give me the number where you'll be staying, just in case something comes up around here? You know I'm not going anywhere—well, except to Rampart, of course." Mrs. Daniels handed Mike a pad and pen from near her phone, and Mike wrote down the DeSotos' names and numbers.

"I'm pretty sure this is where I'll be," he said, handing the paper back.

"Oh, and Mrs. Jenkins asked me why the sheriff had been around so much. I have to confess, I didn't tell her the entire truth—I told a little white lie, and just said that you boys had been having some trouble with pranksters. But she told me she'd keep an extra sharp eye out, and you'd better believe she will, too. As will I."

"Thanks a lot, Mrs. Daniels—really. I appreciate it. We both do."

"I certainly hope they catch those thugs soon," she replied.

"Yeah. We do too. We're pretty much at the ends of our ropes," Mike admitted. "And now Johnny's gonna be off work for a few weeks, too, and I can't even begin to tell you how crazy that's gonna make him."

"Have faith—it'll all work out in the end."

Mike silently disagreed with the "faith" part, since he didn't personally believe there was much of anything to have faith in at this point, other than shitty human nature, but he knew she meant well, so he responded in kind.

"Thanks. Have a good night, and thanks again for all your help."

"Good night, Mike."

Mike got back in his truck, and began the drive back to Rampart. Again. Forty minutes of mind-numbing driving later, he pulled into a visitor's spot, and decided to go in through the ER rather than the main entrance. Squad 51 and an ambulance were parked in the bay. Mike struggled to remember which shift would be on tonight, but the complex calendar had gotten lost in all the other things Mike had to keep track of. All he could be sure of was that the squad wasn't manned by Johnny and Roy. Cane in one hand, and Johnny's bag in the other, he slipped in through the ER entrance and went in search of Dixie, who would surely know where Johnny had been taken.

Oddly, the ER was dead quiet. Nobody was in the waiting room, and nobody was at the nurses' station. Mike decided to peer into the staff lounge to see if Dixie was in there. He poked his head in the door, and saw Craig Brice and Bob Bellingham sitting at the small table. B-shift tonight, then, Mike concluded, as he hastily retreated, not wanting to start an awkward discussion. He decided he'd be better off going back to the main entrance, and checking with the admissions desk. He went back down the ER corridor, heading for the double doors back to the main lobby of the hospital.

"Mike!" a voice called from the other end of the hall. He turned, and saw Dixie emerging from the elevator. "I just took him up—come on, I'll show you up to his room."

Mike gratefully joined Dixie in the elevator.

"Thanks, Dixie. I just had a close encounter with Bellingham and Brice—I don't think they saw me, though."

Dixie laughed. "They're perfectly fine gentlemen, but I can bet Johnny wouldn't want them to know he's here, so I understand your trying to escape." She pushed the "5" button, and the elevator lurched upwards. "Oh, you're all set with the DeSotos—Roy said they're happy to have you."

"Thanks. That's a relief, actually. I'll just say good night to Johnny, and then head right over. I know they turn in early—I'm probably already keeping them up."

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened on the fifth floor. Dixie led Mike to room 521. "I'm afraid he's got a roommate," she said, "so I'll just pop in first to make sure it's okay for you to come in."

Dixie knocked and entered the room. Johnny's roommate, a middle-aged fellow with an arm and a leg in casts, was already sleeping. The curtain was drawn around Johnny's bed already.

Dixie stepped back out to the corridor. "His roommate's sleeping, so just sneak on in," Dixie said. "And Roy said just to come when you can, and knock instead of ringing the bell. He said he'll be up."

"Thanks, Dixie. I really appreciate everything. I know Johnny does too."

"You're welcome," she said. "I'm selfishly glad he wanted to come here instead of Henry Mayo. Tell him I said good night." And with that, Dixie headed back to the elevator, to return to her slow evening in the ER.

Mike slipped quietly into room 521, and found the opening in the curtain around Johnny's side of the room. Johnny's eyes were closed, but it didn't really look like he was asleep.

"Hey, love," Mike whispered.

Johnny's eyes opened. "Hiya," he smiled sleepily. "Dixie says you're all set at Roy's."

"Yeah. I brought your stuff—you want anything from it now?"

Johnny frowned. "Nah. Might as well sleep in this stupid thing," he said, indicating the hospital gown he was wearing, "since they're gonna be prodding me all night anyhow. And can you believe," he continued, "I have to pee in a pitcher, so they can measure every drop? And any time I drink anything, it has to be in front of a nurse, so she can measure it exactly?" He shook his head. "But hey. I guess I don't really care."

"You sound a little less doped up," said Mike. "Are you feeling okay?"

Johnny nodded. "Yeah—the first stuff started to wear off, and they gave me a little less this time. I guess I kinda overdid it, huh?"

"It's possible," Mike said. "But it doesn't really matter—I mean, you were really hurting, so I'm glad you took something. That's what it's for."

"Yeah, Well, sorry if I said anything weird." He looked up anxiously. "Did I say anything weird?"

Mike tittered quietly, trying not to wake the roommate. "You very kindly gave me permission to call you gorgeous, beautiful, and hot."

"In _front_ of people? Did I say that in _front_ of people?" Johnny asked, struggling to sit up, and then giving up and flopping back down. "Ow."

"No. Just in the truck," Mike replied. "Don't worry—I managed to stop you when I thought you were about to say something embarrassing in front of people. Most of the time."

"Oh," said Johnny. "Yeah—that's right. You're my brakes."

"You bet." Mike sighed. "Another shitty day, Gage."

"No day is _that_ shitty when it's with you."

Mike rolled his eyes at Johnny. "You're definitely still high."

"Yeah."

"But gorgeous, beautiful, and hot, too."

Johnny laughed, doubling over. "No fair—no making me laugh."

"Sorry." Mike smoothed Johnny's hair off his forehead, and gently kissed him above his swollen eye, and then on both cheeks, and finally on the lips. "I better go."

"Yeah." Johnny pulled him down for one more kiss. "I'm glad you're staying at Roy's."

"Me too. Love you. See you tomorrow. Is it okay if I come by on my lunch hour?"

"You bet—as long as you bring food."

"It's a deal." Mike kissed Johnny one more time. "G'night."

~!~!~!~

Mike arrived at the DeSotos' house at around a quarter to eleven. He parked the truck in front of the house, and knocked quietly at the door. Roy answered the door a few seconds later, dressed in a robe over pajamas.

"Hi, Mike. C'mon in."

"Hey, Roy. Thanks a lot for putting me up—sorry I kept you up."

"Don't worry about it—I wasn't really all that tired anyhow. How's Johnny doing?"

Mike shook his head. "He's—well, he's got three cracked ribs, but what they're keeping him in for is a bruised kidney. Dr. Brackett said something about it maybe already being scarred from when he ruptured his spleen a few years ago?"

"Yeah," said Roy. "Man, that was touch and go for a while," Roy recalled, shaking his head. "But yeah—the left kidney is just behind the spleen, so it almost certainly took some damage from the impact of that car, too. So I'm not surprised Brackett is worried."

Mike paled. "He, uh, didn't sound _that_ worried," he said shakily. "More, just, precautionary. Roy, is he worse than they're saying? I mean, nobody told me it was _that_ bad—though I guess there really was a _lot_ of blood in his pee. A _lot_. All right, that's it—I'm going back to get some straight answers." Mike turned back to the door, but was stopped by Roy grabbing his arm.

"Mike. Calm down, all right? I mean, the worst that could happen is—"

"What, Roy? What's the worst that could happen?"

Roy sighed. "Look. Come sit down, all right?" He led Mike into the living room, and pushed him gently into a chair. "Here's what they're doing. They're probably just keeping track of how much liquid goes in, and how much comes out. Okay?"

"Okay," Mike said warily. "He _was_ complaining about having to pee into a pitcher."

"And if they know how much is going in and out, then they can tell whether the amount of bleeding from the kidney is subsiding, which they couldn't tell if they didn't know how much it was being diluted, all right?"

"Yeah—but what were you thinking of, just now? The worst that could happen?" Mike's eyes were wide, and his hands were clutching the arms of the chair.

"Mike, the worst that could happen—which almost certainly won't, all right? The worst would be if the kidney was bleeding too much, and they couldn't repair the bleeding, they would have to take it out."

"Oh, God," said Mike. "See? I should go back."

"Now hang on," said Roy. "If Dr. Brackett thought it was bleeding that much, he'd have sent Johnny in to surgery first thing, okay? Did that happen?"

"No, but—"

"Did he even _mention_ that?" Roy asked patiently.

"No, but—"

"He would've, if he thought it was likely to happen, okay? Dr. Brackett is the bluntest guy I know, and he wouldn't beat around the bush, especially with a guy like Johnny, okay?"

Mike didn't answer.

"Okay?" Roy repeated.

"Okay," said Mike. "But Roy, what if he didn't tell Johnny, because he didn't want to alarm him, or because he thought Johnny was so high he wouldn't get it anyhow, or, or …"

"Look," Roy said. "That's not how Brackett works. Plus, you have Johnny's medical power of attorney, right?"

"Right," Mike nodded. Roy knew that perfectly well, since he'd been the keeper of that power for many years, and happily transferred it to Mike a few years ago. Unlike Roy, though, Mike had never had to make any medical decisions for Johnny.

"So even if he'd thought Johnny was too drugged up to make decisions for himself, which, by the way, I'd like to hear how you managed, he would've asked you."

"But what if he didn't know I had power of attorney?"

"He knew. I told him when Johnny transferred it from me to you. But if he'd forgotten about that somehow, and thought it was still me, then he would've called me," Roy said calmly. "And he didn't. All right?"

"Okay," Mike said, letting out a breath. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Roy said. Johnny had mentioned once, in passing, that Mike tended to get, well, overly anxious sometimes, and could talk himself into obsessive worrying, but this was the first time he'd seen it in person. "But I'm sure if you had any questions, you could call Dr. Brackett right now and he'd answer gladly. Do you want to do that?"

Mike thought for a second. "No. I think you straightened me out. Thanks."

"Any time," Roy said. "Now, let's have some tea or something, and then call it a night."

"Okay," said Mike. "Are you on, tomorrow?"

"Yeah. You?"

Mike nodded, as they went into the kitchen. "Monday through Friday, nine to five. Well," he amended, "seven thirty to four, actually."

"How's the arson unit working out for you these days?" Roy asked, trying to keep Mike's mind on something safe.

"Good, actually. I didn't think I'd like it as much as I do. But it's good. We're working on that supermarket fire from a couple months ago—remember that one, near Palmdale, that went to five alarms, and the whole block went?"

"Yeah, I do," said Roy. "Way out of my area, but I bet every guy in the department heard about that one."

"Well, I can't say too much about it—we go to trial next week—but we're all hoping the bastard gets nailed. I'm still pretty new at this, but the other guys say it's looking good."

"That's great, Mike. Do you think you'll have to testify?"

"Not for this one. I'll sit in on some of the trial, though, because pretty soon they're gonna have me going in that direction."

"Wow." Roy poured boiling water over tea bags in two mugs. "I don't know if I could do that."

"The funny thing is, Roy, I don't mind talking in front of people if it's about technical stuff. Work stuff. I mean, while I was on light duty, they made me teach some pump operations units at the academy, and at first I thought I'd pass out from nerves, but once I remembered I knew what I was talking about, and they were only gonna ask me about that, and not about anything personal, it didn't bother me." Mike shook his head. "Weird, huh?"

"From the guy who was famous at our station for two-word sentences? Yeah. But good for you, Mike. Good for you for getting into something new, and taking it by the horns."

"Well, at the time, Roy, it was either that, or take medical retirement, and go stark staring mad from boredom. So taking the bull by the horns seemed less scary, actually. Plus, well …"

"What?" Roy asked.

"Never mind," Mike said.

"Okay …" Roy was dying of curiosity, but knew not to pry. "This is chamomile, by the way. I have no idea if it's true, but Joanne says it's supposed to be soothing to the nerves. She makes it for us every night."

"Huh," said Mike. "Smells all right. Kinda, flowery or something." He took a sip. "Very mild."

Roy laughed. "When Jenny was little, she misunderstood the name, and thought it was "can of mild." It's mild, the tea bags come in a can—totally reasonable."

Mike laughed. "That's cute."

They took their tea back to the living room.

"What I was going to say, was, I knew I needed something to keep me busy, so I wouldn't go nuts," Mike said quietly, "but I didn't care—not at the time. I didn't care if I went nuts or not. But I knew Johnny did, so that's how I was able to take the bull by the horns. I was petrified—but I did it for him," he concluded, almost in a whisper.

Roy sat silently for a moment. "You guys are good for each other," he said.

"Yeah," Mike said. "Yeah, we really are. And right now, Roy?" Mike looked up from his tea, right at Roy. "If I found those guys that hurt him, I'd take 'em apart. I honestly don't think I could stop myself."

"You could," Roy said. "You might not want to, but you could, and you would."

"I would? What's one reason I'd want to stop?"

"I'll give you two," Roy said. "One is, you wouldn't lower yourself as far as them. And two, Johnny wouldn't like it."

Mike froze. "No," he said, putting his mug down on the coffee table. "No, he wouldn't, would he. I knew that, too. I'm just so … mad."

"I don't blame you," Roy said. "You guys have gotten a bad deal—from society, from the department, from an idiot driver who was too busy rubbernecking at a wreck to see a guy in reflective turnouts holding a big orange flag, and now from a couple of jerks who've gotten way out of line."

Mike couldn't disagree, but didn't have the energy to add to what Roy had said, so he just nodded and sipped his tea.

"He'll be fine, Mike."

"I know."

The front door opened quietly, and Joanne stepped in.

"Roy, are you still up?" she asked in surprise as she entered the living room. "Mike? What—oh, no," she said, realizing why Mike was likely here. "What happened?" she asked, sitting next to Roy on the sofa.

"He—Joanne, the guys who have been giving us all this trouble? They followed him, and they dragged him into an alley, and beat him up pretty bad," Mike said, rubbing his brow. "He's at Rampart, at least overnight—he's got some cracked ribs and a bruised kidney, and they need to keep an eye on the bleeding for a while."

"Oh, no," she repeated. "Oh, Mike, I'm so sorry. That's just—" she couldn't finish. Tears sprang into her eyes. "I'm sorry—I'm not a crier, really, but that's terrible. I'm so, so sorry."

"He's gonna be okay, Joanne," Mike said, believing it this time. "I know he'll be okay."

"He always is, isn't he," she sniffed, laughing a little despite herself. "Though he _has_ seemed to keep himself out of trouble since the two of you got together."

"Until now," Mike said. "Huh."

"What?" Roy asked.

"Oh, I just remembered something he said a long time ago—way before my accident, back when I'd dislocated my shoulder, which seemed like such a big deal at the time, but looks like nothing now. Anyhow, I said something about how he was always taking care of me, and he laughed and said he was sure I'd get my turn. Well, I guess it's my turn," Mike said sourly.

"I wish we could do something—tell us what we can do, Mike—we'll do anything we can to help," Joanne said.

"You guys are doing something—you're giving me a convenient, safe and friendly place to stay."

"But that's nothing, Mike—we're happy to have you, and Johnny too, when he gets out, for as long as you want," said Joanne.

"That's not all you're doing. The really big thing you're doing," Mike continued, "is you're raising your kids not to hate people for any reason. And right now—that's the biggest thing I can imagine."

~!~!~!~!~

"Mr. Gage?"

Johnny woke up suddenly, the pain in his ribs and kidney reminding him instantly where he was. He couldn't see out of his right eye, which had swelled shut overnight. He made do with peering through his left eye, and saw a nurse standing next to his bed.

"Mr. Gage?" she repeated.

"Yeah. I'm awake," Johnny said groggily. The room was dark, except for a small bedside lamp the nurse had apparently turned on. He had a headache—but that was nothing unusual for waking in the hospital.

"I've got your next dose of pain medication, and I also need to get a urine sample."

Johnny groaned and sank into the bed. "All right—do I at least get a little water to wash these down with?"

The nurse handed him a minuscule paper cup containing at most an ounce and a half of water, and another cup containing two pills. "I'm sorry; we have orders to keep your fluids down to a minimum, to let that kidney rest."

"Yeah, I know, I know," Johnny grumbled. He put the two pills on the back of his tongue, and sipped the water to swallow them, praying the small amount of liquid would get both the tablets all the way down. He returned the two cups to the nurse, sat up, and swung his legs off the side of the bed. "What is it, like two a.m.?" he asked, letting his blood pressure adjust to his being upright.

"About that," said the nurse. "Can you get to the bathroom on your own, or do you need a hand?"

"I can do it," he said. The nurse handed him a plastic jar with a lid.

"Don't forget, the rest still needs to go in the pitcher," she reminded him.

"Yep." Johnny made his way into the bathroom, turned on the light, wincing at the glare, and closed the door. He followed the nurse's instructions, and noted that maybe, just maybe, this sample looked a little less bloody than the last one.

"Here ya go," he said, handing her the jar. "Hot off the presses."

"Thanks for cooperating," she said. "Sorry I had to wake you."

"'s okay," Johnny said. He rolled back into the bed, thought of Mike sleeping in the DeSotos' spare room, with the floral patterns that Mike would surely hate on the bedspread and curtains, and was asleep again almost instantly.

"Huh," the nurse said. "_He wasn't _difficult_,_" she thought, thinking of the dire warnings she'd gotten from co-workers who'd tended to this patient in the past. "_Far from it. A total puppy dog. Didn't even come _close_ to hitting on me, either._ "

~!~!~!~!~

Elenora Daniels woke with a start, unsure what had brought her to wakefulness. She put on her glasses, and looked at the bedside clock. _Four a.m._, she thought. _Not a good time for anything. But, awake is awake, she thought. Plus, I'm pretty sure I heard something. Time for a look-see out the ol' front window._

As she made her way to the front of the house, she was sure she heard a metallic clanking sound—something like a metal can, perhaps. She peered through a small opening in the living room curtains, and immediately stepped back.

The silver Honda was there again—she was sure of it. She went quickly to her phone table, and grabbed the pencil and paper she kept there. She knew she couldn't stop whatever they were doing, but she also knew nobody was at the house anyhow. She strained her neck and her eyes as hard as she could, but only got the first two symbols from the plate: F9. Maybe it would be enough.

She put down the pad, and went straight back to the phone, where she had the deputy's card ready and waiting.

"_L.A. County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Price speaking._"

"This is an emergency," Mrs. Daniels said. "I'm calling from 14319 Harrison Street, and somebody is doing something to my neighbor's house, across the street at 14318 Harrison. This may be related to an ongoing incident, and I was given this number to call."

"_Is that the Stoker/Gage residence_?"

"It is, and I know for a fact that nobody is home. The car in front of the house was the one that followed Mr. Gage earlier. There are two men outside the house. I can't see what they're doing over there, but—" There was the sound of breaking glass. "They just broke some glass. It's still too dark to see exactly what they're doing."

"_Ma'am, stay inside your house. I'm sending a car right now. Can you give me your name and number please?_"

Mrs. Daniels supplied the information, hung up the phone when the deputy told her to, and waited.

Two minutes later, the silver car pulled away from the house across the street.

Three minutes after that, a black and white sedan pulled up in front of the house, lights blazing and sirens screaming. The officer in the passenger's seat trained a floodlight on the house. Mrs. Daniels could see the damage now—bright pink paint had been thrown all over the brick front of the house, and the plate glass window in the living room was shattered.

~!~!~!~!~

Mike limped in to HQ a little later than usual—closer to eight o'clock—but still earlier than most of his colleagues. There was a pink message slip clipped to his door, with the "Urgent" box checked: "Mr. Stoker—please call Deputy Price ASAP."

"Shit," Mike said. He sat down at his desk and dialed the number on the message slip.

"_L.A. County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Price speaking._"

"Deputy, this is Mike Stoker returning your call."

"_Mr. Stoker, I'm afraid there's been an incident at your home overnight._"

Mike couldn't think of what to say.

"_Mr. Stoker?_"

"Yeah. I'm here. What kind of incident?"

"_Your neighbor, Mrs. Daniels, phoned us at 0410 stating there was a silver sedan in front of your house, and that there were two men doing something at the house. We arrived at 0416 to find that the intruders were gone, but the large living room window had been broken, and that paint had been thrown on the front of the house._"

"Fuck," Mike swore loudly. "Just—damn it. That's just the last fucking straw. I guess I'll go home and put a board up over the window or something."

"_No need—Mrs. Daniels explained your situation—that Mr. Gage is in the hospital, and that you were staying with friends near there, so we took care of boarding up the window_."

Mike's jaw dropped in astonishment. "Seriously? That's … extremely kind. Sorry I lost my temper."

"_Understandable. Don't worry about it. The good news is, Mrs. Daniels was able to get part of the plate number, and she confirmed the make and model of the vehicle, so there's a fairly good chance that we should be able to get the owner in for questioning today._"

"That woman is a saint," Mike said instantly. "I'm calling the Pope today to tell him." He thought for a second. "Are you allowed to tell me who the car is registered to?" he asked.

"_Let me see … James Torrelli. Does that name mean anything to you?_"

"Not a thing." Mike had a sudden inspiration. "Hang on a second—I have my Department HQ phone book right here—but that would be too easy, wouldn't it." He thumbed through the booklet. "Nope, no Torrelli that I can see at HQ."

"_We'll pick him up_," Price said confidently. "_Also: is Mr. Gage in the hospital as a result of yesterday's assault?_"

"Yes," Mike said. "It turned out he had some bleeding from his kidney, and they need to keep a close eye on it."

"_Do you think he would be up to signing a release form?_"

"A release form? What for?" Mike asked.

"_We'll be increasing any potential charges from assault and battery to aggravated assault and battery, based on the seriousness of injury. We need medical documentation of that, and we need him to sign off on a release so we can get the records from the attending physician._"

"Oh," Mike answered. "I … don't know if he'll do that."

"_It's up to him_," said Price. "_But we probably can't prosecute it as a felony unless we have those records. It would just be records of this injury—nothing else_."

"I'll talk to him at lunchtime—please don't send anyone to see him until then, if that's possible."

"_That's fine. Someone will come by this afternoon._"

Mike had a sudden thought. "You know, do you think you could send an officer by the name of Vince Howard? I'm pretty sure he still works in the district that Rampart is in. He and Johnny worked together a lot—I'll bet Vince might have a better shot than a stranger."

"_I'll see what I can do,_" said Price. "_And I'll let you know of any developments. Will you be staying at the number Mrs. Daniels gave us this morning? We tried to reach you there earlier, but were told you'd left for the office._"

"Um, I'm not sure. I'll let you know."

"_That's fine. We'll keep you posted._"

"Thanks. And—thanks an awful lot for taking care of the window."

"_No problem. We'll be talking to you soon_."

Mike hung up the phone, and put his head down on his desk for a long, long time.

After a while, he picked himself up, went into the break room, and made a pot of coffee. He stared at the coffeemaker while the pot was brewing, trying not to think about anything. It didn't work. He poured himself a mug of the brew, and sat back down at his desk. He opened his top right drawer—the one with his pictures—and felt a tiny bit better.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number he called frequently, but for a different purpose than usual.

"_L.A. County Fire Department Station 93, Captain Sterling speaking._"

"Hi, Len. Mike Stoker."

"_Howdy, Mike_," said Sterling. "_I'm guessing this isn't a social call, from the sound of your voice._"

"No. No, it's not. Look—there's no good way to do this, so I'll just say it. Johnny got beat up last night by the guys who've been hassling us. He's in the hospital. He's got three cracked ribs, among other things, and that's gonna mean probably three weeks sick time. I know he's got it, but I also know Chief Livingston has it in for him, and this isn't going to go over well with him."

"_Like a fart in church_," Sterling agreed. "_So you're wondering what advice I might have about how to smooth things over with him, is that it_?"

"Pretty much," Mike replied sheepishly.

"_Well, first off, I'm happy to work a double—take John's shift tomorrow. That'll be a good start, as Livingston likes advance warning when people have to take sick time. As if people should be able to schedule illness and injury_."

"Really? That's great—thanks. I know Johnny was dreading calling in today, but being able to name his sub for tomorrow will help a lot. Thanks a million, Len."

"_Entirely my pleasure,_" replied Sterling. "_I'm guessing Hank would take some shifts, and maybe DeSoto, too? They both work A-shift as well, if I recall._"

"Yeah—I'm pretty sure they would. I'll talk to them both today, too. Man, Johnny might kill me for meddling, but I gotta do something."

"_Son, he's not gonna kill you. He may fuss and grumble about you mindin' your own damned business, but he'll know you're doin' it 'cause you love him._"

"You're probably right. It's my turn, anyhow."

"_Your turn_?" inquired Sterling.

"My turn to take care of him for a change. I just have to get him to let me, is all."

"_I don't think it'll be as hard as you think, Mike._"

"Maybe not."

"_Anyhow—I'll talk to Jeff Gilbert on B-shift. He isn't in a position to pull double shifts, but he could probably stick around and wait on someone comin' up from down south if that would help. I know it's quite a trek to get up to this neck of the woods from most of the rest of the county._"

"Thanks, Len. Thanks a lot. I'm about to call Rampart to see how Johnny's doing—I'll keep you posted, okay?"

"_You do that. Take care, Mike._"

~!~!~!~!~

"Mr. Gage?"

"Go 'way."

A hand gently shook his shoulder, and the room lights came on, bright enough Johnny could see red through his eyelids—or at least, through one of them. "Mr. Gage, I'm sorry to wake you, but it's time for another dose of your medication, and I need another urine sample."

"Yeah. Okay. Gimme a minute." He opened his eyes, or at least, the one that would open enough to be useful, and saw the same nurse who'd been in every three hours during the night. "Shouldn't you be off?"

"My replacement called in sick; I'm just staying a few extra hours until her sub can come in."

"Oh." He repeated the drill of sitting up, adjusting to being upright, taking his pills, and filling the sample jar.

"I let you sleep through breakfast—you looked like you needed the rest more than the hospital food—but can I get you something now?"

"Yeah, that'd be great. But I'm guessing coffee is right out."

"Right out," the nurse agreed. "No diuretics while you're resting that kidney."

"At least the painkillers will keep me from having a caffeine withdrawal headache, though."

"Ah, the voice of experience."

"Yeah. Been here a lot. Bet I have a big capital "D" in my chart for "Difficult," too."

"Well, keep up this behavior, and I'll bet it gets removed from your record."

"Juvenile records are supposed to be sealed anyways, right? What'd they say about me, anyhow? I know you nurses share notes on repeat offenders, and us firemen have gotta be the worst of all."

"Oh, you've got the big "D," all right, and they said to watch out for incurable flirting, avoiding medication, juvenile behavior, and general stubbornness."

"Sounds about right."

"So what happened?"

"Grew up, I guess. Finally." He absentmindedly spun the ring on his finger.

The nurse smiled. "Well, I'll be back with a nice, well-behaved, grown up breakfast. The orders are for a low protein diet, with fluids still restricted, but you didn't have much at night, so we can probably manage some orange juice to go with the toast."

"Uh, thanks, but I can't stand the stuff—just water would be great. Or maybe decaf—fool my brain into thinking it's had coffee."

"Decaf it is, then," said the nurse. "Someone will be in shortly with your meal."

"Thanks," said Johnny. "Oh—could you shoot me the phone before you go?"

The nurse moved the phone from Johnny's nightstand to the table she swung over the bed, and left.

~!~!~!~!~

Mike still hadn't mustered the willpower to do any actual work. He sat at his desk, intermittently brooding and making a list of things to do that had nothing to do with his work assignment.

1. Thank-you gift for Mrs. Daniels.

2. Locate a sandblaster to rent.

3. Lunch for J.

4. Call docs.

5.

Before Mike could add any more to his list, his phone rang.

"Arson/Fire Investigation, Mike Stoker speaking."

"_Hey Mikey._"

"Hi babe! How are you?"

"_Maybe not so bad. Ribs feel better, a little, I guess. Kidney's not so achy, and I think the pee looks maybe not so bad, but only the lab can say for sure. Doc's s'posta come in soon._"

"They let you sleep at all?"

"_Yeah, actually, I kinda just got up. They woke me up a million times—all right, maybe three—but in between I actually slept okay. Pretty foggy, though. Gonna see if maybe I can cut back on the pain meds._"

Mike sighed. "You know what I'm gonna say, right?"

"_Yeah. I'm just thinking cut back a little—not quit entirely, all right? Oh, and here's the really crummy part—they have me on restricted fluids, and a low protein diet, to try to rest that kidney. So I guess that pretty much rules out you bringing me decent food for lunch._"

"Well, I'll come by after, then, just to hang out."

"_Great! So you stayed at Roy's right?_"

"Yeah. Um, it's probably a good thing, too." Mike relayed the information Deputy Price had passed along earlier.

"_God damn. Why can't they just leave us alone? What do they get outta this shit, anyhow?_"

"Beats me, Johnny. Something, I guess." Mike sighed. "Listen—two more things. One, the cops want to get a report from Brackett—and they need you to sign off on a form for that. Will you do it? Please?"

"_I guess—long as it's just for this one thing, right?_"

Mike was relieved. "That's what they said—just this incident. They need a medical report to justify to the D.A. to increase any potential charges to a felony."

"_Okay. What's thing two?_"

"Well, don't kill me, okay, but I talked to Len. He's gonna cover your shift tomorrow, so don't worry about Livingston coming down on you for short notice for a sub, all right?"

"_Shit—I wasn't even thinking about that. Thanks. And why would I kill you for doing me a favor?_"

"Uh, I dunno," Mike fumbled. "Maybe 'cause I'm meddling in your business?"

"_Way I see it, most everything that's my business is yours, too. Hey—doc just came in—I gotta go. Love you._"

"Love you too—see you around one?"

"_Great. Bye._"

Mike put his phone down, and, cheered by Johnny's acquiescence, started in on his actual work.

~!~!~!~!~

Dixie had one last stop to make before going home after her twelve-hour night shift. She entered the office of the Personnel department, still wearing her uniform, and hoping that the right person would be seated at the desk in front of the locked files.

She was.

"Good morning, Laura!"

"Dixie! What brings you to the dungeon of despair?"

"To be honest, I need a huge favor," Dixie admitted.

"Well, after you found me those volunteers for the new hospice program, and steered me clear of that walking disaster who wanted the head nurse's job in pediatrics, you can pretty much name it."

"I need some information I can't have," Dixie said quietly.

"Oh," Laura replied. "That's, um, harder."

"Nobody will ever know where it came from—if what I need is even still here, I'll pass it along anonymously to where it'll do the good it needs to do. I swear, Laura, I would never ask this if it weren't really important. I have a good friend who's in trouble, and if we can find an ex-employee it could make all the difference."

"Is your friend in trouble because of something she did?"

"No, it's a he, and he's in trouble maybe because of something the ex-employee did. Or, more likely, the ex-employee's brother."

"What kind of trouble?"

"The kind of trouble that makes you spend time in this joint," Dixie said. "I'm sorry, I really wish I could tell you the whole story, but I can't."

Laura sighed. "I need to go to the bathroom," she said. "Would you mind watching my office while I'm out? I'll lock the door, and put the "back in ten minutes" sign on the door, but if you could keep an eye on the files, that would be great, because the key's right there in my top drawer, right where anyone could get it."

Dixie sighed with relief. "Thanks a million, Laura. It's for a good cause—honest."

Laura shook her head. "If it were anyone else, Dix …" She went out the office door, and Dixie heard it lock.

Dixie went to work on the files, looking over her shoulder even though she knew nobody could possibly be watching. Two minutes later, Dixie was silently cheering Lynn Nolan for thoroughly and completely filling out her emergency contact form. She wrote down some information, replaced the file, and was sitting innocently in a chair far from the files when Laura returned.

~!~!~!~!~

Deputy Jim Price was at his desk, finishing the report from the latest Stoker/Gage incident. Another pair of men was out tracking down this James Torrelli character, who turned out to have a warrant out on him anyhow, for a variety of parking and traffic infractions. Price sighed—it seemed likely that this bozo was just a hired heavy, or maybe a friend of the brains behind the harassment, because there was no apparent connection between him and either Stoker or Gage.

The phone rang, just before Price was about to take a coffee break.

"L.A. County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Price speaking."

A female voice came on the line. "I have some information that might be helpful in a case you're working on."

"All right—your name, please?"

"No can do—this has to be anonymous. You can talk to me now, and have the information today, or I can put it in the mail, and you'll have it tomorrow. Your choice. And, I'm calling from a pay phone, so don't bother trying to trace this call."

Price rolled his eyes. "Okay—go ahead."

"This pertains to a case regarding the assault of a man named John Gage, and the threats that have been made to him and his partner, Mike Stoker. You should look for a man named Bill Staib. He's the half brother of Lynn Nolan. His most recent address was 3634 South Marydale. His most recent place of work was at the County Fire Department in the motor pool. Can you repeat back what I just said?"

Price's eyebrows climbed up his forehead as he repeated the information he'd written down. As soon as he'd finished speaking, he heard a click and the line went dead.

As much as he wanted to laugh his head off at this civilian's cloak-and-dagger behavior that suggested too much time in front of the TV, he couldn't, because she'd probably just busted his case wide open for him.

**TBC**


	30. Progress

****A/N: Sorry for the long delay. It's been a tough couple of weeks. Thanks to everyone who left comments; I appreciate it more than you can know.

**Chapter 30: Progress**

Just after one thirty on Thursday afternoon, Mike knocked on the door of room 521 at Rampart.

"Come on in," said an unfamiliar voice, just loudly enough to be heard through the door.

Mike entered the room quietly.

"Afternoon," Johnny's roommate said quietly. "You must be here for him," he said, pointing over to the other side of the room, which was enclosed by the curtain. "He's sleeping, I think. He's pretty much been asleep the entire time he's been here, lucky bastard. Anyhow, don't mind me. Carry on. Oh—and his doctor came in a little while ago, but he told the nurse he didn't want to wake Mr. Gage up quite yet, but that he'd come back soon."

"Thanks," Mike said. "Sorry to bug you."

"No problem," said the man. "Just wish I could sleep like him," he said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, me too," Mike said.

He parted the curtain and stepping into the enclosed area. Johnny's one mobile eyelid was fluttering. Mike didn't really want to wake him, so he just brushed a gentle kiss on his forehead and took the chair next to the bed, leaning his cane up against the nightstand. Seeing Johnny sleeping made Mike realize how exhausted he was himself. He took Johnny's left hand in both his own, moved the chair as close to the bed as possible, and laid his head down on the mattress near Johnny's chest. Twenty seconds later, he was fast asleep.

Fifteen minutes after that, the door to the room opened, and a physician in a white coat came in, nodding to the roommate, and going straight into Johnny's enclosed area. Johnny was wide awake, holding a finger up to his lips in the "sh" sign and then pointing to Mike. "Gimme one minute, okay?" he whispered.

The doctor looked back and forth between Johnny and Mike, who was still sound asleep with his head on the mattress, nodded, and stepped out of the enclosed area.

Johnny ran his hand through Mike's hair and down his neck.

"Mike," he said quietly. "C'mon, Stoker. Gotta wake up."

Mike slowly picked his head up off the mattress. "Hey," he said. "Uh, sorry."

"'s okay," Johnny said. "Doc's here, though. You pretty much awake?"

Mike rubbed his eyes, and blinked a few times. "Yeah."

Johnny quickly and quietly kissed Mike's hand, and then let it go. "C'mon in, Doc."

The doctor pulled the curtain back, letting a great deal more light into the area. "Mike, this is Dr. Nash—he's a kidney guy. Doc, Mike Stoker. Anything you have to say to me is for him, too," using the same phrase Mike had always used during his time in the hospital.

The doctor nodded. "Pleased to meet you. All right, Mr. Gage—how are you feeling this afternoon?"

"A lot better—no lie, Doc. I cut back on the meds for the last two doses, and the ribs are still plenty sore, but I really think that kidney is feeling better. I mean, I can still tell exactly where it is an' everything, but it's more of a dull ache than outright pain like it was last night."

"Good," Nash nodded. "The labs are looking better, too. Less blood in the urine—quite a bit better, there. And there was nothing grossly abnormal in this morning's kidney panel—those are the blood tests that look at kidney function. Last night, there were a couple values that were outside the reference range, but today, everything looks fine."

"Does that mean I can get sprung any time soon?" Johnny asked, trying not to appear too eager.

"Twenty four hours," said Nash, watching as Johnny's face fell. "Sorry to disappoint you, but let me clarify. The amount of blood in your urine has gone down considerably, but there's still significant bleeding. I want you on total bed rest, except for getting up to use the bathroom, for another twenty four hours. And as for getting home—do you live by yourself?"

"With me," Mike volunteered.

"Okay, good," said Nash. "If the bleeding has continued to subside, after twenty four hours, I'll feel comfortable sending you home, with the understanding that you'll continue to rest for at least three more days. And I mean _seriously_ rest. You don't have to stay in bed, but lie down on the couch or sit in a recliner. No housework, no cooking, no nothing. Mr. Stoker," Nash continued, eyeing the cane, "is that going to be okay for you? I'm sorry, but I have to ask."

"Sure, Doc. No problem. I can take care of that stuff."

The doctor unhooked the chart from the foot of the bed, and made a few notes. "All right then—we'll continue with the fluid restriction and the low protein diet until tomorrow morning, and then see how things progress during the day tomorrow. I'll still need to see urine samples every four hours, and we'll run another renal panel tonight. And you can taper the pain medication as you wish at this point—in fact, if you cut back on the opiates, you'll be able to tell more easily if you're doing something that will bother that kidney. How would you feel about trying to taper off the oxycodone by tonight?"

"Any time, Doc. Can't stand being silly and foggy," Johnny said, not for the first time that day.

"Fine. I'll leave orders for just plain Tylenol for your next dose, which is in—" he consulted the chart— "two hours. Absolutely no aspirin, though—not for quite a while. We'll discuss that further before you leave."

"Yeah, I know—blood thinner," Johnny said. "Might make the kidney bleed more, right?"

"Exactly," replied Nash. "Before you leave, I'll give you a list of foods to avoid for the next week or so as well."

"And one last thing—I see in your history that you're prone to developing pneumonia when you're hospitalized. As of right now, have you had any coughing, or even a tickle? Any feeling of shortness of breath?"

"Nope, none of that, except it hurts to breathe too deep, from the ribs," Johnny replied.

"Yeah, but he's still gotta try some deep breathing, though, right, Dr. Nash?" Mike asked. "I mean, I had a whole bunch of broken ribs too when I did the leg in a couple years ago," he said to Dr. Nash, pointing at the cane, "and they'd come in and torture me every so often with these deep breathing and coughing exercises."

"You're absolutely correct. Let's skip intentional coughing—that could jar the kidney excessively—but I want you to shoot for several really deep inhalations, a couple times an hour, if you can. It'll hurt, but a lot less than the coughing that comes with pneumonia would."

"Yeah, I know it," said Johnny. "One time I had pneumonia right after I'd just had my spleen out, and man, that was a helluva thing."

"All right," said Dr. Nash. "So just so I know we're clear, repeat back to me what's happening."

"Next dose of pain meds is plain Tylenol. Deep breathing a couple times an hour, even though it'll hurt like a sonofabitch. Urine sample every four hours, kidney panel tonight. Low protein and fluids till the morning, then see how it goes. Maybe get sprung tomorrow afternoon."

"And when you get home?"

"Rest. He does everything else for me except eat, sleep, piss, shit, breathe, sleep, and talk," Johnny answered, pointing at Stoker.

"Interestingly put," said Nash, laughing. "All right. I'll see you in the morning, unless there's a change."

"Thanks, Doc," said Mike.

"Thanks," Johnny echoed, as Dr. Nash departed.

"Shit, babe," Mike said. "Another day?"

"It's okay. I figured this morning that's what he'd say. Pee ain't supposed to be that color. You okay at the DeSotos' another night?"

"Yeah. They say hi, by the way. Roy's got a shift today or he'd come by. Oh, and Mrs. Daniels said she might show up."

"Oh, yeah—didn't have a chance to say—she showed up this morning and brought cookies. I saved 'em for you and other visitors—off limits for the likes of me. Didn't tell her that, though." Johnny pointed to the bedside table. "Right there in that white box. Go for it."

"I'm not gonna eat 'em in _front_ of you," Mike said indignantly.

"Suit yourself—maybe take 'em with you then?"

"Okay—only 'cause I'm not letting anyone else eat 'em in front of you either. That's just cruel."

Johnny laughed, and winced.

"What's so funny?" Mike complained.

"You. Goin' all mother hen and protective."

"Yeah, well don't let it go to your head, Gage."

"Not a chance, Stoker." Johnny looked at his watch. "Hey, when do you hafta go back to work, anyhow?"

"Fifteen minutes or so. Nobody really cares when I come and go, but I've got some stuff to get done before I leave tonight, and I don't wanna mess up Joanne's dinner plans. But I'll tell you what—I'll come by after supper, too, okay?"

"Great." Johnny looked over at his roommate, who either was, or was politely pretending to be, immersed in his book. He reached out and took Mike's hand.

They both looked up, and Mike pulled his hand back, when they heard a quick knock just as the door opened. A nurse came in, followed by a dark, uniformed figure who was doing his best to blend in with the shadows.

"Mr. Gage? This officer insists on seeing you," she said, looking disapprovingly back at Officer Vince Howard.

Johnny laughed. "It's all right, nurse. He's not here for an interrogation. C'mon in, Vince! Join the party."

The nurse shook her head at the collection of people in the room, and left.

"Well, John Gage! It's been a quite a while! And howdy—Mike Stoker, ain't it? You were with 51s quite a while ago, if I recall."

Mike nodded. "Hiya, Vince. Yeah, I moved up to 93s, then got busted up on a call and couldn't go back on active duty. Now I'm arson investigation, so we'll probably cross paths there someday."

"And I don't get down to 51's territory too much anymore," said Johnny, "so yeah, it's been quite a while, huh? How've you been, Vince?"

"Can't complain, Johnny. And yourself?"

Johnny shook his head ruefully. "Guess I'm entitled to complain some at the moment."

"So I see, from the request from Deputy Price up in your neck of the woods. I mean, what the hell, Gage?"

"I tried to fight back, Vince—I really did—but—"

"No, _that's _not what I meant. Who's got it in for you?"

"Not totally sure," Johnny said. "Someone in the department who doesn't like me."

"C'mon, Gage; why would someone not _like_ you?"

Mike looked at Johnny, who shrugged. "Doesn't like our kind," Mike said quietly, taking Johnny's hand.

"I … see," said Vince. He looked at the two of them. "I guess I didn't know about that. But I'll tell you a story some time, about bein' a black cop, when I first started out, in 1964. Won't make you feel real good, but … well, I think it's fair for me to say I've been somewhat in your shoes."

"I bet you have," Johnny said. "But maybe without the whispering and speculation."

Vince chuckled. "I dare say that's true. Anyhow, Johnny—I'm supposed to talk to you about this release form, here. Assuming we catch the guys who did this, we have to get a statement from your doc that you were seriously injured, in order to bring up felony charges."

"I'm fine with that," said Johnny. "Just as long as it's just the records from this incident."

"There's a place on the form for the date of the incident. You fill that out, and we'll only get the records related to the assault. And that's it. Rampart's real good about keepin' people's privacy."

"All right. You got a pen?"

Vince handed him the form, and Johnny filled it out, consulting with Mike about a few details of timing. He handed the form to Vince, who checked it over and nodded.

"All right, Johnny. Thanks. I won't keep you any longer. And I hope—I really hope—that my department is doin' right by you."

Johnny nodded. "Oh yeah. I mean, it'd be great if they actually _caught_ these guys, but so far those assholes have been doing a pretty good job of keepin' outta sight."

"Well," said Vince, "as my momma used to say, which my poppa didn't like too much, some assholes do have a knack for staying outta the light of day."

Johnny laughed, and clutched at his ribs. "No makin' me laugh, man. I got cracked ribs!"

"Sorry—missed that. Anyhow—you rest up. I'll check up on you tomorrow, if you're still gonna be in this joint."

"Yeah," Johnny sighed. "One more day." He waved as Vince left.

"I guess I gotta go too, babe," Mike said. "I'll see ya tonight." He stood up, looked over at the roommate, who was still politely holding his magazine high, and quickly kissed Johnny before he left, carrying the white box of Mrs. Daniels' cookies.

"Sorry 'bout all the racket," Johnny said to his roommate. "John Gage, by the way."

"Fred Hermann," said his roommate. "And no problem. My last roommate was in some kind of biker gang, and they were all here at once. The one before that was ninety six, and kept thinking I was his doctor, and should be helping him. So a cop? Not a problem. Trust me."

"What's your line of work?" Johnny asked.

"Boring. I'm a building code inspector for the city of L.A."

"Oh—you fall through a bad floor or something?"

"No," Fred laughed. "Fell off a ladder at my own damned house. And what do you do?"

"I'm a Captain in the County Fire Department," Johnny said. "And I didn't get busted up at work either. Got laid out flat in an alley by two thugs."

"I couldn't help overhearing that. Sorry that happened. Sometimes I think we live in a civilized time, but then something will happen to remind me we don't."

"Oh, I dunno," Johnny said. "Ninety nine percent of the time, ninety nine percent of people are just fine."

"Yeah—but the other one percent?" Fred shook his head. "Anyhow—don't worry about me. I'm not gonna give you or your partner a hard time, so just—well, don't bring in a motorcycle gang, and we'll be fine."

"I don't think you gotta worry about that one," Johnny said.

~!~!~!~!~

Mike was thrilled to make it through the rest of the work day without any contact from either law enforcement or the harassers. He packed up his work, locked his office, and left the building in plenty of time to make it to the DeSotos' for dinner with Joanne and the kids. He marveled at the short twenty-minute commute, and parked under a tree in front of the DeSotos' house.

Chris and Jenny were playing with friends in the front yard, though Chris, at fourteen, would certainly object to the term "playing."

"Hi Uncle Mike!" he said.

"Hey, kids," he said. "Your mom home?"

"Yep—and she says dinner's soon," said Jenny. "Didja see Uncle Johnny today?"

"I sure did, Jenny. He's feeling a lot better, but he still has to stay at the hospital one more night."

"Why?" she asked, inquisitive as always.

"Do you know what kidneys are?" Mike said.

Jenny nodded. "They take bad stuff out of your blood, so you can pee it out."

Her friend made a face at her. "Eew, gross, Jenn!"

"What?" said Jenny. "It's true."

"Do you know what a bruise is?"

"That's an easy one—it's when blood gets under your skin. Or, I guess, it could also be a bruise if it got out of your blood vessels someplace else where it's not supposed to be, right?"

Mike was stumped by a twelve-year-old. "Let's ask your dad about that tomorrow, but I guess that could be true. Anyhow—he bruised his kidney."

Jenny thought about that. "Oh, man. Does that mean—"

Joanne poked her head out the door. "Dinner's ready! Oh, hi, Mike."

The kids said goodbye to their friends, and Mike, Jenny and Chris headed inside.

Jenny whispered to Mike on the way in. "Do you pee out blood when that happens?"

"Yeah. It's really gross," Mike whispered back. "And don't tell Johnny we talked about that, or I'll be in really big trouble."

Mike and the kids pretended to fight over who got to wash their hands first at the sink in the small downstairs lavatory, and then headed to the table in a civilized fashion.

Joanne had made pork chops, a potato salad, summer squash, and some kind of cooked leafy greens, all in huge quantities.

"I wasn't sure whether Johnny would be out by this afternoon, so I made a lot of everything," Joanne said, when she saw the children's eyes bugging out of their heads.

"He's stuck till tomorrow afternoon—sorry, I should've called you to let you know as soon as I heard," Mike apologized.

Joanne waved him off. "Don't be ridiculous. You have enough to worry about. Oh, by the way—I assume the deputy who called here this morning after you left reached you okay at work?"

Mike nodded, but didn't say anything further, as he wasn't entirely sure how much Roy and Joanne had told the kids about what was going on.

"Deputy?" asked Chris. "What's going on, anyhow, Mom?"

Joanne looked at Mike. "May I?" she asked.

Mike's eyes widened. "Sure," he said. "I'll let you do the talking, and I can fill in what you want me to."

"Well, kids, it's pretty sad, actually. And kind of scary. But you kids are big enough that I think we can talk about this, okay? It's kind of important to talk about it, actually."

Jenny and Chris nodded. Chris was still plowing through his food, but Jenny's fork rested on the edge of her plate, her meal nearly untouched. Mike was with her on this—his stomach was so tied up in knots he wasn't sure, even before this difficult topic came up at the table, whether he was going to be able to do justice to Joanne's meal.

Joanne continued. "You remember, when we talked about how Uncle Johnny and Uncle Mike were living together, just like Dad's cousin Steve moved in with Frank? We talked a little then about how some people wouldn't like that."

The kids nodded. "Kim's mom said I wasn't allowed to talk about that at her house," Jenny admitted.

"Well," Joanne continued, "some people who really don't like it that Uncle Johnny and Uncle Mike live with each other have been doing some bad things. Some really bad things," she continued, "and it's pretty scary."

"I'm scared," Mike added, "and I'm a grown-up."

"Dad says grown-ups get scared, just like kids do," said Jenny. "Except about stuff that's real. And Mom? You're talking to us like we're little kids."

"Sorry, Jenn. I'll try not to. But you said grown-ups get scared about things that are real, and unfortunately, it's real that there are some bad people in the world," said Joanne. "Some people are really angry at your uncles, and they're trying to scare them and hurt them. And I wish I could tell you grown-ups don't act like that, but they do."

"Duh, Mom," said Chris, around a mouthful of food. "I mean, kids know there's crime, and wars, and stuff. And we don't start that stuff. Grown-ups do."

"Good point," Joanne said drily. "And please don't talk with your mouth full."

"Mom? I guess I thought Uncle Johnny was in the hospital because of getting hurt at work, like usual. But … did—did someone hurt …" Jenny's eyes filled with tears.

"Yes, honey—I'm afraid so. Someone hurt Uncle Johnny on purpose."

That statement caused even Chris to put his fork down for a moment.

Mike stepped in hastily. "I don't think they meant to hurt him as bad as they did, Jenny. And he's going to be just fine—I promise."

"It doesn't matter!" she shouted. "I know we're not allowed to say we hate people, Mom, but I have to! I _have_ to hate people who'd do a thing like that!"

Joanne looked at her daughter seriously. "Jenny," she said, "I think, just this once, that it's okay to say that."

"And you know what I think?" Chris said boldly, not about to let his little sister top him. "I think it completely, totally sucks."

"Don't say that in front of your father," Joanne reminded him, "but I'm right there with you, kiddo. It absolutely sucks."

Jenny sniffled. "Can I be excused for a minute, please? I'll come back and finish, I promise."

"Sure, honey," said Joanne.

"Can you pass the potatoes, please?" Chris asked Mike. Chris had demolished his entire meal, while everyone else had hardly started.

Mike wordlessly handed Chris the dish of potatoes, and watched in amusement as the teenager piled a mountain of potato salad next to a second helping of meat.

"What I want to know," Chris asked, "is why the cops haven't caught these guys yet."

Joanne looked at Mike.

"We don't actually know who's doing these things, Chris. The men who hurt Johnny were wearing ski masks, and other than that, we haven't been near them."

"Can't the cops take fingerprints, like on TV?"

Mike shook his head. "There hasn't been anything to fingerprint, so far," he said. "But maybe …"

"What, Mike?" Joanne asked.

Mike sighed. "The deputy who called this morning? He was calling to tell me what they did to the house last night."

"What?" Joanne gasped.

"They threw a brick through the big window in the front, and dumped paint all over the front of the house. So maybe they left some prints. I don't know. I'm sure the cops checked. But the good news is, one of our neighbors across the street got the make and model and enough of a license plate number that they tracked down the owner of the car. He's nobody Johnny or I had ever heard of, and he's not in the—" Mike stopped suddenly. He decided not to drag the fire department into this in front of Chris, who had already stated his intention to follow in his father's footsteps.

"I see," Joanne said, clearly understanding.

"Not in the what?" Chris asked, predictably.

"You're gonna have to let that one go, buddy," said Joanne. "Sorry."

Chris shrugged. "Whatever. I still say they suck."

"I still say you're right," Joanne said, relieved Chris wasn't pursuing the forbidden topic.

"I can help you guys clean up, this weekend, if you want," Chris offered.

"Thanks, Chris. That's really great. We'll probably take you up on that, if it's okay with your folks," Mike said, wanting to give Chris the power to feel like he was helping, but realizing it wasn't totally up to him.

Joanne nodded. "We'll all come."

"Thanks," Mike said quietly, as Jenny returned to the table.

"We'll all come where?" Jenny asked.

"To our house, this weekend, to help clean up a mess those guys made last night. Actually, since you're halfway to being a doctor, you'd be the perfect person to watch out for Uncle Johnny. When he comes home, he's not allowed to do _anything_, and probably won't even want to, because he has some broken ribs, and those really, really hurt," said Mike.

"Okay," Jenny said quietly. "I'm good at that sort of thing." She worked at her supper for a while, but her heart clearly wasn't in it.

Mike felt pretty much the same way. The food was delicious—but the knots in his stomach weren't letting him get much in.

"Uncle Mike? Are you going to the hospital tonight?" Jenny asked.

"I sure am," Mike replied. "Johnny's pretty down in the dumps, and I can't say I blame him. It's pretty boring being in the hospital. They're always telling you to rest, but then they keep waking you up all night. And the medicine they give you for really bad pain makes your brain get kind of dumb."

"Can I go with you?" Jenny asked.

Mike put his fork down. "I think Johnny will have to answer that. I'll tell you what—if it's okay with your mom, I'll call him before I go, and see what he thinks. But honey, if he says no, it's not because he doesn't want to see you, okay? He's always talking about how he misses you guys, and wishes he could see you more. But he's really not feeling good, and a lot of people, when they're really not feeling good, don't really want other people to see them."

"I guess I understand that," Jenny said. "It's like throwing up at school."

"Pretty much," Mike said. "Having visitors in the hospital if you're not really in the mood, it can be pretty much like throwing up at school. Embarrassing and stressful, and you feel really sick."

"If it's okay with Johnny, we'll all come—but only for a _really_ short time, since it's a school night, and since he needs his rest," Joanne said.

They tried to talk about other things for the rest of the meal, but found there really wasn't anything else on anyone's mind at the moment. After Chris couldn't eat any more, and Jenny and Mike had given up on pretending to eat well, they all went to the kitchen and made short work of the dishes.

Mike went to the upstairs phone extension to call Johnny.

"Hey, babe. How are you doing?"

"_Thirsty, sick of carbohydrates, tired, and wishing I could just go home. Other than that, just peachy._"

"How'd it go, with just taking the Tylenol?"

"_So far not too bad—definitely feeling the ribs, but it's manageable. We'll see what happens when I try to get to sleep, though_."

"Maybe they could give you something to help with that."

"_I guess_," Johnny said. "_I'll ask. For sure. You comin' over?_"

"Of course," Mike replied. "But, uh, Jenny wants to come, and Joanne said they'd all come for just a few minutes, but only if it was okay with you."

Johnny sighed. "_I don't know, Mike. I look like crap. But—Jenn's real worried, I'll bet._"

"Yeah. I told her, though, that it was up to you. I'm pretty sure she gets it, from what she said, that sometimes people in the hospital aren't gonna want visitors."

"_Why? What'd she say_?"

"That it might be embarrassing—like throwing up at school."

"S_he's got that right. But yeah—I know Joanne will really only let them stay for a couple minutes—so why not. Just make sure they know I have this horrendous shiner, though—nothing else shows, but nothing says 'just got beat up by thugs' better'n a good ol' black eye._"

"Chris'll probably think it's cool. And Jenny—well, she got really upset when she found out your injuries weren't from the job, but about blood and guts? She's unflappable, you know."

"_Yeah. Okay. Lemme just check with Fred—hang on_."

Johnny must've put his hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver, because all Mike could hear was muffled rumblings.

"_He's cool. See you soon?_"

"Yep—half an hour or so. You need anything?"

"_Other than for you to be here? Nothing I'm allowed to have, nope._"

"Mm. I don't think I'd be helping if I gave you anything you're not allowed to have. But I'll show up soon."

"'_kay. Bye._"

~!~!~!~!~

On the other side of town, two officers from the L.A. County Sheriff's department knocked on the door of an apartment, an arrest warrant in the hand of the senior officer.

A stockily-built man, about five feet eight inches in height, opened the door, leaving the chain on.

"Yeah?"

"James Torrelli?"

"Yeah? The fuck you want?"

"Open the door, please."

He tried to stare them down, and sighed as he realized the futility of his gesture. He closed the door, took off the chain, and opened it fully.

"James Torrelli, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"

"Yeah, yeah. The fuck did I do this time?"he grunted.

"We have a warrant for your arrest for multiple outstanding traffic violations."

"Big whoop," he said.

"And, you are a suspect in some recent incidents, including felony vandalism, and felony aggravated assault and battery. We have a warrant to search your vehicle, a silver 1979 Honda Accord sedan, California plate number F93-4BJ, for evidence relating to those incidents. Do you have the keys?" The officer handed Torrelli the warrants.

Torrelli's eyelid spasmed over and over, creating a mockery of winking as he scanned the warrants. "I'm sticking my hand in my pocket to give you the fucking keys, so don't get all twitchy and shoot me." He handed the warrants back to the officer, removed a ring of keys from his jeans pocket, and held them out between two fingers so one of the deputies could take them. The deputy removed the single Honda key.

"Is this the key to the silver Honda?"

"I fuckin' said so, didn't I?"

The officer didn't respond.

"Yes. It. Is. The. Key." Torrelli said, as if he were talking to a deaf, non-English-speaking two-year-old.

He put his hands out in front of him, wrists next to each other.

"William T. Staib," he said. "And that's all you're gettin' outta me. I want my fucking free lawyer, and not one that sucks."

The two deputies marched Torrelli down the stairs and outside, closing and locking his apartment door and putting the rest of the keys back in his pocket.

"Great—cops are fags now, too?"

"I suggest you exercise your right to remain silent. Please get in the car, sir" said the first deputy, as he opened the rear door and helped Torrelli inside. He closed the car door, and handed the Honda key and the search warrant to a man in plain clothes. "Here ya go, Detective. I hope to hell you find whatever you're lookin' for in that car, 'cause this is one major asshole. Did you catch the name he said just now?"

"I did," replied the detective. "We already had that name, but the fact that he said it is certainly incriminating to both of them."

"Thought so," the deputy said smugly. "Fucking _dumb_ asshole, too."

The deputies drove off, with their evening's prize in the back seat.

Back at the car, the detective struck pay dirt. Inside the vehicle, he found a paint can lid lifter—the kind hardware stores give out for free—wedged in the passenger's-side front seat. The tip had a small quantity of hot pink enamel paint on it. The store's name and phone number were printed on the handle. The detective smiled, and dropped the item in an evidence bag.

~!~!~!~!~

Captain Hank Stanley was engaged in his usual after-dinner routine of finishing paperwork from the daytime part of the shift when the phone on his desk rang.

"L.A. County Fire Department, Station 51, Captain Stanley speaking."

"Howdy, Hank. Len Sterling here."

"Len! Everything okay?" After Sterling's four-a.m. call to inform Hank of Mike's near-fatal accident eighteen months ago, Len's voice was one that Hank couldn't hear on the phone without a sense of alarm.

"With me, sure. With our boys Gage and Stoker, not exactly."

"Yeah, I was over there the other day. They're having a rough time of it. It's, well, appalling, that it seems like it's someone in the department that's been doing all this."

Len paused for long enough that Hank became concerned again. "Hank, when was the last time you talked to either of them?"

Heart thumping, Hank replied, "Sunday afternoon."

Sterling sighed, and filled Hank in on the things he'd missed, topping it off with Johnny's assault and hospitalization. Though the paramedics had informed him that you can't actually feel your own blood pressure, Hank didn't believe that for a second. His head filled with blood, and for a minute he imagined he saw red around the edges of his vision. He assured Len that yes, he would be happy to take a shift or two over the next couple of weeks, and that he'd work the timing out with his wife. He replaced the receiver, picked it up again, and dialed the switchboard at Rampart.

"Patient phone for John Gage, please."

"One moment, please."

A pause, a ring, and another ring.

"_Hello_?"

"John? It's Hank Stanley."

"_Oh hey, Cap. I guess you heard about the latest Gage damage, huh._"

"I did. How are you doing?"

"_Not too bad, all things considered. I mean, a lot better than some of the times I've been here._"

"That's good, I guess. Listen, I'm gonna sub in on a couple of your shifts, all right? I'll work it out with Jane, but count on me for two shifts, okay pal?"

"_Thanks, Cap. I really appreciate it. I talked to Livingston late this afternoon, and man, he was none too happy_."

"Well, like I said before, he's an ass. What else can I do to help out?"

Hank heard Johnny's heavy sigh. "_You know anybody who's got sandblasting equipment lying around?_"

Cap knitted his brows together. "Sandblasting?"

"Y_eah. Here's the latest headline: Stoker/Gage residence vandalized. Pink paint thrown on house, brick through window. Fire department assholes suspected. And the bitch of it is,_" Johnny added, returning to his regular voice, "_it's a brick house, so we can't just paint it. We gotta blast it off._"

"Geez. But you know," Cap said slowly, "I might just be able to rustle something up for you along those lines. It's a long-shot, to say the least, but I'll let you know soon."

"_Seriously? I was kind of kidding. I mean, where would you find sandblasting equipment? We were planning on trying to rent it, but I don't even know where to start looking._"

"Like I said, it's a real long-shot," Hank said vaguely. "But I'll let you know." He changed the subject. "How long are they keeping you locked up?"

"_Might get out tomorrow afternoon, if things are looking better. It's the same kidney by where my spleen used to be, so they're being extra careful, 'cause they said it's already taken some damage before._"

"Mike doing all right?"

Johnny paused to consider that. "_Not so sure, Cap. He's pretty stressed out by all this. I'm trying to just sit back and let him, you know, take care of me and worry about me and stuff, 'cause that's what he wants to do_."

Hank laughed. "So, are you any good at letting him do that?"

"_Not as bad as I thought I'd be, actually_," Johnny admitted. "_Makes the nurses happy too. I guess I coulda cooperated a little better in my past visits to this establishment, and maybe things woulda gone a little smoother_."

"No, you couldn't have," Cap said, laughing slightly.

"_Huh? Well why not_?"

"Because I'm pretty sure you didn't have that kind of behavior in you until, say, about maybe two and a half years ago."

"_Two and half years ago? I don't get it._"

"Think about it, pal. You'll figure it out. On that note—you rest up, and knock their socks off with your stellar cooperation, all right?"

"_You bet, Cap. Thanks a lot. For everything_."

Cap once again replaced the receiver, much more gently this time. He smiled as he finished the last run report on his desk, having enjoyed his conversation with Gage despite the situation that prompted it. He took apart the triplicate form, and put the various copies where they needed to go, and then poked his head out into the apparatus bay.

"Lopez? You out here?"

Lopez appeared from the other side of the engine, holding a red-tipped touch-up paintbrush. "Right here, Cap. What's up?"

"Give that brush to Jackson and come on in my office for a sec, will ya?"

Marco did as he was asked, and entered the office.

"Have a seat," said Cap. "I have kind of an odd question for you. I seem to remember you saying something a couple months ago about your brother picking up some sandblasting equipment to start a business or something. Is that right?"

"Sure, Cap," said Marco. "He's still just getting started with the blasting business, but it's picking up a bit. Why?"

"Does he ever rent it out?"

"I don't know—probably he would, on the weekends. He doesn't get a lot of business when people are home. People don't wanna be home when someone's sandblasting their house. How come?"

"I might just have a weekend customer for him."

"Really? Who? I mean, why?"

Cap sat forward in his chair, and folded his hands in front of him on his desk. "Let me tell you a story about some old friends of ours, Lopez," he began.

**TBC**


	31. Visits

**Chapter 31: Visits**

A/N: Ch. 31, in which Emergency goes 'film noir' and Mike goes a little crazy. Thanks to Bamboozlepig for help with police procedures and to starlight guardian for putting the idea for a new scene into my head.

~!~!~!~

After the leftovers were put away and the dishes were washed, Mike and the DeSotos, minus Roy, who was at work, took separate cars to Rampart to visit with Johnny. They met in the lobby, and Mike took them up to the fifth floor.

"Now remember, kids," Joanne said in the elevator on the way up, "we can really only stay for a few minutes. We'll check on Johnny, and talk with him for a little while, but then we're going to let him and Uncle Mike be, all right?"

"Yeah, Mom. We got it."

Mike suppressed a grin as Chris's voice cracked—when did he get so old? He could practically hear both kids' eyes rolling at their mother's repetition of her instructions, but they were outwardly as polite as always. He wondered, for a moment, what his niece and nephew, who were only a few years older than Chris and Jenny, were really like. Even though they only lived in San Diego, Mike only ever saw them at family events—weddings and funerals and the like—and there hadn't been many of either in recent years. Mike's brother, Charles Jr., had made it excruciatingly clear that he wanted nothing to do with Mike, and wanted his kids to have nothing to do with their queer uncle either. He'd hoped that his parents' recent tolerance, if not acceptance, of his "lifestyle," as they so irritatingly put it, might make it easier for Charlie to back down, but it hadn't happened.

Mike was jolted out of his reverie as the elevator "dinged" their arrival at the fifth floor. "His room is down the hall, this way," he said, and led the group to room 521. He tapped on the door, and Johnny's voice rang out.

"C'mon in!"

Mike swung the door open, and their parade trooped in. Fred Hermann had the curtains drawn around his bed, which Mike took as a signal to politely pretend he wasn't there, yet at the same time keep the noise down and the group visit short, which was the plan anyhow.

"Hey, babe." Mike leaned down and pecked Johnny on the cheek. The DeSotos were about the only people he would consider displaying affection in front of, because he knew that to them, it wouldn't seem any different from if Roy did the same with Joanne. "You treating them all right around here?"

Jenny giggled. "Uncle Mike! I'll bet Uncle Johnny is being an excellent patient, right?"

Johnny nodded. "You bet I am, sweetheart. They're being pretty nice to me, too."

Chris was staring openly at Johnny's black eye.

"Wow, Uncle Johnny. That's a pretty good one. Even worse than the one I got when I ran my skateboard into the cement pillar that time."

Johnny winced at the recollection. He'd been in charge of the kids for a weekend, just before he and Mike had gotten together, and had been mortified when Joanne and Roy returned from their weekend getaway to find that their son looked like he'd tussled with a pro. But nobody had been angry or upset.

Unlike now.

"Johnny, we're all so sorry about what happened," Joanne said.

"And mad, too," Chris added helpfully.

"Mom said we're allowed to hate the guys that did this," Jenny said, not wanting to let Chris get the upper hand in indignity.

"That's fair," Johnny said. "I'm pretty ticked off myself."

"Are you feeling better?" Jenny asked, showing her true nature at last.

"Yeah, I definitely am. They're probably gonna let me out tomorrow," Johnny said. "Time off for good behavior."

"Will you come to our house?" Jenny asked.

"Yes, he will," Mike said, before Johnny had a chance to reply.

"All right, kids," Joanne said, "remember the plan?"

Jenny kissed Johnny on his unbruised cheek, and Chris stood there awkwardly. Johnny sensed his awkwardness, and stuck his hand out for a manly handshake.

"Bye, guys," Johnny said. "Thanks for stopping by. I guess I'll see you tomorrow sometime."

"Good night," Joanne said, as she ushered the kids out the door. "And call if you need anything tomorrow—Roy and I will both be around."

"Thanks," Johnny said. "I will."

"Bye," Chris said on his way out the door.

"Good kids," Johnny said, after the door had closed.

"The best," Mike agreed. He slumped down in the chair next to Johnny's bed, suddenly feeling defeated and worn out.

"You okay?" Johnny asked, reaching out and putting a hand on the back of Mike's neck.

"Just tired. I got to bed really late, and then I didn't sleep well."

"You feel kind of warm," Johnny said.

"I dunno, maybe I'm coming down with something. I'm so tired I can't even tell. You'd think I'd be used to running on not a lot of sleep after being a fireman for twelve years, but I guess that wore off."

"Well, sure, you're tired after a shift, but then you get a couple days off. With a regular job, if you're not getting enough sleep, it kinda seems like it would build and build all week."

"I guess so," Mike said. "At least tomorrow is Friday."

They sat there together quietly for a little while, Johnny rubbing the back of Mike's neck, and each of them just enjoying the other's presence.

"I talked to Cap right before you came," Johnny said.

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh. He's gonna take a couple shifts for me, which is great—the less Livingston has to do to get me subs, the better off I'll be with him in the long run."

"He's a prick."

"Yep. But I'm stuck with him, and I'm sure he feels the same way," Johnny said.

"Screw him," Mike said. "He needs to retire. Or be retired."

"I'll agree with you on the second and third things you said, but the first thing? I'll pass on that one, thank you very much."

"Okay," Mike said. "How 'bout if he screws himself?"

"Fair enough." Johnny paused, squinting up at the corner of the room. "Seems to me there was something else I was gonna tell you … oh yeah! Cap said he might have a lead on some sandblasting equipment. He said it was a longshot, but it's a start, at least."

"Huh. Did he say where from?"

"Nope—he wouldn't say. Anyhow, I guess that's everything you haven't heard since we talked this afternoon."

They sat quietly again for a little while, holding hands.

"Seeing Jenny and Chris today made me think about Chuckie and Sarah," Mike said. "And made me think about how I wish I could know my own niece and nephew. I mean, Chuckie's the same age as Chris—and I bet you anything he doesn't let people call him Chuckie anymore, but how would I know, right?" Mike said, sighing heavily. "And Sarah is almost sixteen. I think the last time I even saw them was at my cousin's wedding, which was a couple months after we got together."

"Yeah." Johnny smiled. "I thought I was gonna go nuts with you being gone for two days."

"Well—who knows," Mike said. "Maybe they'll turn out to be reasonable young adults. Maybe Mom and Dad can, I don't know—at least tell them about me. That I'm not some kind of creep."

"Maybe they'll both decide to go to UCLA," Johnny suggested. "Then they could decide for themselves whether they wanted to see you."

"True," Mike said. "Once they turn eighteen, I'll invite them to visit, and then it's up to them."

Mike stood up and stretched. He turned his chair before he sat down, so he was facing Johnny.

"You been doing your deep breathing?"

"You better believe it. Last thing I want is pneumonia, partly after having had it that time with the spleen, and partly because I want out of here ASAP."

"And you're just on Tylenol now, right?"

"Yep—it's fine."

"Fine?" Mike asked, frowning at him.

"I mean, all right, I'm sore, but honest, Mikey—I think the problems with anything stronger at this point outweigh the benefits. For real. I'm not trying to pull any macho bullshit, or any of my old stuff, okay?"

Mike nodded. "Okay." He looked Johnny up and down again, and couldn't help himself from getting misty-eyed. He stood up, and, cupping the unhurt side of Johnny's face in his hand, kissed him gently. "Johnny …" He couldn't continue.

"It's all right, babe. Honest, I'm really doing better, okay?"

Mike swiped a hand across his face, angry with the one tear that fell. "God, I feel so stupid. But I don't think I've ever been so upset about anything before. I mean, there's two guys, who we don't even know, who are from our own god-damned place of work, who—" he looked over towards the curtain-shrouded bed on the other side of the room, and stopped his sentence in the middle.

"Mike, of _course_ we don't know them. Nobody we know would have anything to do with anything like this, right? I mean, it would be worse if we _did_ know them. Of course, I didn't get a good look at the guys, but I'd've been able to tell if they were familiar. For sure."

"Yeah. Okay. And I guess I forgot to tell you this—Deputy Price said Mrs. Daniels got them a partial plate number the other night, when they trashed our house, and the owner of the car was somebody-or-other Torrelli. That didn't mean anything to me, and he wasn't in the HQ directory. You know anyone of that name?"

Johnny shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. But like I said—I can't imagine that anyone we work with would have anything to do with this. And the cops'll get 'em; I'm sure of it. Especially now that they have the owner of the car. And Mike," he said, squeezing his hand, "I'm honest-to-goodness gonna be fine. And I know how upset you are. I've been there myself. You shoulda seen me, when you were at Henry Mayo, that first week or so. Every time I went in the bathroom, I was bawling my head off, or screaming, or something. I kept a pillow in there so I could scream and cry into it without you hearing. So I guess what I'm sayin' is, I know it's tough to be where you are now, but please, please, please, don't make yourself sick. Which I think you're on the verge of, if I know your look right now."

Mike blew out a long breath. "Yeah. I feel like crap. Achy, kind of."

"So do this: give me a big, whopping g'night kiss to remember, and then go back to Roy's and crash. Try to take it easy tomorrow, and I'll see you after they let me outta this joint. Okay?"

"Okay. And, I have my appointment to get my stitches out tomorrow anyhow, so I'll at least stop by then. Maybe you'll know then when you're getting out, right?" Mike asked hopefully.

"I bet I will. Now c'mere."

~!~!~!~

Friday morning, 0800.

Detective Tom DeVito pulled his unmarked car into the back parking lot of the L.A. County Fire Department Headquarters building. He took one last swig of his fourth cup of coffee for the morning—and tenth or eleventh since they'd picked Torrelli up the previous night. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the cold remains of the swill, and folded the sun visor down to look in the mirror.

His eyes were bloodshot, but there was nothing to be done about that. But he was glad he'd looked—the five-o'clock shadow was, well, actually a day's growth of beard at this point. He yanked the glove compartment open, pulled out the battery-powered electric shaver his wife had given him after the last time he showed up at church after an all-nighter at the station, and did what he could. He put the visor back up, threw the shaver back in the glove compartment, and headed to the set of tall garage doors at the back of the building.

One of the bays was open, so he strode in. He prided himself on not looking out of place no matter where he barged in, but it was immediately obvious that he wasn't wearing fire department blues. He looked around with interest—the bay was fully occupied by firefighting equipment. The near bay contained a fire truck whose cab was tipped up and forwards, exposing the huge diesel engine beneath it. The next bay housed a gigantic red truck with an articulating boom. A man on a ladder appeared to be working on one of the joints of the boom. In a third bay, a Dodge utility vehicle was having its front bumper refitted.

"Can I help you, Mister?" asked a fiftyish fellow, who was wearing the blues that proved he belonged where he was.

DeVito showed his gold badge. "Detective Tom DeVito, County Sheriff's department. I need to talk to whoever's in charge here."

"Here, like HQ? Or here, like the shop?"

"The shop, for now."

"Hang on. Not sure if the boss is in yet. Lemme check." The man strode to the back of the bay. "Charley?" he bellowed.

"What?" a voice replied. The source of the voice wasn't immediately obvious.

"Where are you, boss? Cops wanna talk to you."

A wiry, graying man hopped down from the engine with the tipped-up cab. "Again? All right. Lemme clean up."

"No need," said DeVito. He showed his badge again. "Detective DeVito, L.A. County. Is there someplace we can talk? Your office, maybe?"

"Sure," chuckled Charley. "Right this way. Charley Vicks, by the way—I run this shop."

Charley led DeVito to the huge Snorkel truck. He opened the door to the cab, and pointed inside. "Step into my office."

DeVito grabbed the hand-hold at the edge of the door and hoisted himself into the compartment. The cab appeared immaculately clean, but reeked of soot. DeVito sat down on one of the seats, which had a yellow air tank built into its back. Charley hopped up nimbly, and slammed the cab's door closed. "This about that car someone took without authorization?" he asked.

"Not precisely," said DeVito, "though probably related. I need to ask you about one of your employees—William Staib."

"Him? He's on vacation. Since the end of last week. I ain't seen him. Why?" Charley's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What'd he do?"

"He's a suspect in a series of incidents, ranging from harassment to felony vandalism and aggravated assault and battery."

"Whoa, whoa," said Charley, waving both hands in front of him. "I don't know nothin' about any of that kind of stuff."

"I'd like to ask you a few questions about Mr. Staib, if you don't mind."

Charley shook his head. "I dunno—I don't think I oughta be giving out any personal information. I think maybe we oughta go in to HQ, and maybe have this conversation with my boss. He's the Deputy Chief for Special Services."

"That's fine," DeVito said. "Let's go."

Charley opened the door of the cab, and hopped out like a mountain goat. DeVito climbed down more cautiously, and followed Charley to the back of the bay.

"Hey Joey?" Charley shouted.

The first man that DeVito had approached looked up from what he was doing. "Yeah, Boss?"

"I gotta go inside the house for a while. You hold down the fort here, all right?"

"Sure."

DeVito stood by patiently as Charley cleaned the black grease off his hands at a sink in the back of the shop, and then followed Charley into the air-conditioned HQ building. As soon as he got into the fresher air of the building, he could tell he smelled of soot, after spending only a minute inside the cab of the truck. He didn't figure anyone 'inside the house,' as Charley had put it, would even notice, nor care if they did notice. He followed Charley up a flight of stairs, and down a corridor to an office.

The door was labeled "Special Services Division."

Charley opened the door for DeVito, and they entered the suite.

"Hey, Tina," Charley said to the woman at the desk. "Kinda need the chief, pretty much now."

"He's in a meeting," Tina said.

"Yeah, well, unless it's with God, I think you oughta call him. This here's a detective from the sheriff's office, and he's asking me some questions about one of my guys."

"Oh. Okay," she said. She picked up her intercom, and buzzed into the office behind her. "Chief? I'm really sorry to interrupt, but Charley's here with a detective, and they need to talk to you right away."

"_What? All right. Give me one minute. I'll send Pete out, and then you can send them on back._"

"Have a seat," Tina said, pointing to some chairs.

After a minute or two, a tall man in a suit emerged from the office, and held the door open so Charley and DeVito could go in.

DeVito displayed his badge and introduced himself again.

"Deputy Chief Mark Fields," replied the man behind the desk. "What can we do for you, Detective?"

"One of your employees in Fleet Services is suspected of some serious crimes." DeVito repeated the list that he'd already told Charley.

"If I might ask, what does any of this have to do with the Fire Department? I mean, sure, you can look for the guy here, since he works here, but why would Charley be able to tell you anything useful?" Fields asked.

"The victims of the crimes are both members of the department. The harassing letters and phone calls mentioned the department. The victims were both threatened with violence if they did not leave their respective positions within the department, and now a member of the Fire Department is hospitalized as the result of an assault in which Mr. Staib is a primary suspect. The victim stated that one of his attackers mentioned the demand to leave his position during the assault."

Fields sat back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Well." He looked back and forth between Charley and DeVito. "I don't suppose you have a court order that says I need to talk to you, do you?"

"I could get one, by tonight," DeVito said truthfully. "We have another suspect in custody, and eyewitness information that places that suspect at one of the scenes. The suspect in custody has named Mr. Staib as a person of interest, as has another source. We've been unable to locate Mr. Staib, and are concerned that the violence—which I would like to point out has been against two members of this department—may continue unless he's apprehended."

"All right," Fields said slowly. "Charley, you can answer his questions, here and now, on my authority. But Detective, I'm quite disturbed by the implication that one of our employees is attempting to coerce other employees into quitting their jobs."

"We did strongly suggest to both victims that they notify their immediate supervisors of the threats. But if I understand the organization of the County Fire Department, neither of the victims is under your command, so you might not have heard anything about it. One would be under the Operations division, and the other under Prevention."

"I see—so what you're saying is that the two victims and the suspect are in three separate divisions, so the lowest common denominator is the Fire Chief himself? So this is going to have to go all the way to the top, it seems," Fields said, frowning.

"Not necessarily—the victims didn't do anything illegal, and have been cooperating with our office, so I'd just as soon leave them out of it for the time being," DeVito said neutrally. "All I need now is some information about Staib."

Fields nodded. "Go ahead. And if you don't mind, I'd like to record this conversation." He indicated a tape recorder on his desk.

"Fine by me. If I had the equipment, I'd do the same," said DeVito, "but for now I'm stuck with this." He pulled out his notebook, as Fields placed a tape into the recorder and turned it on.

DeVito stated the date, time, location, and people present, for the benefit of Fields' tape recording. "Mr. Vicks," DeVito asked, "did William Staib have permission to use a department car, vehicle ID number 26, on Monday of this week?"

"No, he did not," replied Charley. "Chief, that's the car I told you the cops were asking about before. That vehicle was not signed out or in that day, and there was a discrepancy of over eighty miles on the odometer the next time it was checked out. Someone took it without permission, and we don't know who."

"Would Mr. Staib have access to that vehicle, such that he could potentially use it without permission?"

"Yes, he would. His job responsibilities include maintenance of fleet cars, and he has a key to the lock box containing keys to those cars. We don't hold people's keys when they go on vacation, but I have half a mind to start doing that. Plenty of 'em at the bottoms of lakes, and now this kind of shenanigans."

"When was the last time you saw Mr. Staib?" DeVito asked.

"Thursday of last week. He started vacation on Friday morning, and he's supposed to be off all this week."

DeVito went on to ask a variety of questions about Staib, his work, and his personal habits at work. Charley hesitated once, when DeVito asked him to supply names of people Staib was friendly with at work, but Fields nodded his permission. None of the names meant anything to DeVito, but he wrote them down anyhow.

"Does the name James Torrelli mean anything to you?" DeVito asked.

"Oh yeah," Charley said emphatically. "I canned his ass about a year ago."

"What for?" DeVito inquired.

Charley looked at Fields again, who nodded.

"He got into too many fights on the job. I mean, men will be men, right? But this guy was nothin' but trouble, from day one. Lousy mechanic, too."

"Was he a friend of Staib's?"

"Now that you mention it, yeah, he was."

"Anything else you have to say about Staib?" DeVito asked, finally. "Anything you can think of that might be relevant, no matter how odd it seems?"

"Here's one thing that always bugged me," Charley said. "Most of the guys in the shop—they've got nothin' but respect for the firefighters. Some of 'em used to be firefighters, but got hurt or what have you, and couldn't do it no more. But Staib? He's been in the shop for over five years, and never had a good thing to say about 'em. I never really got why he wanted to work for the department, if he couldn't stand firefighters. But one of the guys said once that Staib had tried for years to get in to Operations—you know, be a firefighter—but could never pass the physical tests. I don't know anything for sure about that, though."

Charley was frowning. DeVito picked up on it, and prodded him a bit. "Is there something else, Mr. Vicks?"

"Yeah, I guess. It's kinda weird, and it's from, I dunno, two, maybe three years ago. I don't really see what it could have to do with anything, but it's just so freaky I should probably mention it."

"Go on," DeVito said.

"So like I said, it's a couple years ago, right? But there was this girl—maybe Linda, or Lynn, something like that?—who started showing up at the shop to talk to Staib. She started to come around a lot, and started really buggin' a coupla the guys. I finally told Staib to get rid of her. He said she was his step sister, or half sister, I forget, and that she just lost her job and was a little nutso. I said no shit, 'cause she was really wacko, but that he still needed to get her the hell out of my shop. Then the next day, he took off sick, just for the one day, and she never showed up at the shop again."

Charley watched DeVito scrawling in his notebook, and shook his head. "Like I said, I don't see what that has to do with anything, but you said to say anything I could think of, even if it was odd."

"It's odd, all right, but fits with the rest of the story." He closed his notebook, and cleared his throat. "Chief, Mr. Vicks—thank you for your cooperation. If and when Mr. Staib returns here, I would appreciate being informed immediately." He handed a card to each of the men. "Under no circumstances should you try to apprehend him, or alert him in any way. Just inform me, or whoever you reach at this number, right away."

"Will do, Detective," said Charley.

"Are you all done with Mr. Vicks?" asked Fields.

DeVito nodded.

"All right, Charley—you can go back to the shop. Please don't discuss this conversation with anyone else," said Fields.

"Sure, Chief," said Charley, heading out the door.

"Detective," said Fields, "I understand about protecting the identity of innocent victims, but I would appreciate if you or someone from your office would communicate with the Fire Chief about these incidents. I have to say, I really don't like what I'm hearing."

"I'd be happy to talk to him," said DeVito, "but I'm not at liberty to discuss the victims. You have to understand, this is a sensitive situation. I will tell you, if it helps at all, that it appears Mr. Staib has a personal grudge against one of the victims, and the other by association."

Fields sighed. "It doesn't help, really. Half of me appreciates that our men don't go running around crying about their personal problems at work, but this whole thing seems a little … extreme." He frowned at DeVito. "And you're sure that the victims aren't involved in anything shady, or anything like that?"

"There's absolutely no reason to suspect them of any crimes," DeVito repeated. "If they're not doing their jobs adequately within the department, that would surely come to the attention of their supervisors."

"It surely would," Fields replied dryly.

"Thank you for your time," DeVito said, standing up. "I'll make an appointment to talk with Chief Bragdon."

"Please do," said Fields. "In fact, I'll let his secretary know you're coming. Because this whole thing," he complained, "sounds like something that could come down on the department like a ton of bricks." He watched DeVito leave, and realized he was disturbed that DeVito didn't offer reassurances to the contrary.

~!~!~!~!~

Five floors above Fields' office, Mike Stoker was at his desk, head resting in folded arms. He hadn't meant to fall asleep—hadn't even meant to put his head down. But a week of sleep that was poor in both quantity and quality had caught up with him in force, and he was out like a light.

Wes Harris knocked lightly on the partly open door as he pushed it open and entered the office. He stopped short at the sight of Stoker sprawled over his desk, navy blue tie spread out across his desk from under his folded arms. "Mike?" he said, and got no reaction. "Stoker!" he said, louder. Still no reaction. Absurdly, Harris was reminded of a prank he'd played on a substitute teacher in seventh grade—the man had fallen asleep at the desk, and the students had stapled his necktie to the wooden desk, and then simultaneously dropped their textbooks on the floor to wake him. He briefly considered reaching for the stapler, but was reminded by the cane leaning against the desk that Stoker had had a rough week, what with having to use the cane again, and probably didn't need a prank.

The meeting they were supposed to attend would start in two minutes. It wasn't his problem if Stoker was gonna be a lazy ass, and he was half tempted to just let him miss the meeting and deal with the fallout. But no, Harris concluded, the case they were working on was important, and the trial was going to start next week. So he decided to be a pal and wake the guy up.

Harris tried one more time to wake Stoker up without having to shake him. "Stoker!" he said again. He shook his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered. He was about to reach over the desk and shake Mike by the shoulder, when a better idea occurred to him. He went back to the door, took it by the inside handle, and slammed it shut.

Mike awoke with a shout that verged on a shriek. He flew out of his chair, and grabbed the first thing he could reach on his desk, holding it out in front of him like a weapon. His hands shook as he wielded the stapler menacingly.

Harris took three steps back from the desk.

"Holy _shit_, Stoker! What the _fuck_ is the matter with you? Put that thing down!"

Mike stared at Harris, and slowly lowered the stapler. His hands were shaking, and his eyes were darting back and forth. He was breathing like he'd just run a four-minute mile, and his face was pale. He toppled back into his chair, still breathing hard.

"What the fuck?" Harris repeated. "You okay, man?"

"Yes," Mike said shakily. "No," he amended immediately, wiping sweat from his brow. "I don't know," he concluded.

"Lemme help you out there," Harris said. "I think 'no' was your most believable answer." His initial annoyance with Stoker's inconvenient nap had changed to mild concern, deepening as Mike's complexion changed from pale and sweaty to gray and sweaty. "You look like death warmed over. And the bad news is, our staff meeting is in five seconds."

"Oh, shit," Mike groaned, putting his forehead on the desk. "I'll be there. You go on ahead—I just need a minute to—"

"To conk out on your desk again?" Harris said. "Nuh uh. C'mon." He went to the side of the desk, and picked up Mike's cane from where it had fallen when Mike leapt up a moment ago. "There'll be coffee at the meeting, and you look like you need about a gallon."

Mike tried to force himself to slow his breathing, which didn't work. His heart was still racing. But he stood up, if a little shakily, and took the cane from Harris. He picked a folder up off his desk, stuck a pen in his shirt pocket, and stood up. "Sorry about my reaction, there. And thanks for coming to get me. Seriously. It would've been bad to miss the meeting."

"Yeah, well, you're welcome," said Harris, as they walked down the hall. "You oughta go see a doctor, though, if you ask me. Cause you look like crap."

"Just so happens I have an appointment at the hospital over my lunch hour," Mike said, remembering his arrangement to get his stitches out in conjunction with an afternoon visit with Johnny.

"Good thing," said Harris. "I still say you look sick, and you've been jumpy as a greyhound all week. Plus, you're limping worse than ever, even with the cane. What's the matter, anyhow?"

"What's the _matter_?" Mike laughed, with a maniacal tinge to the sound, and Harris took a step sideways. "Oh, don't even get me started," Mike said, as they entered the conference room at the other end of the sixth floor.

Mike went straight for the coffee, pouring himself a large styrofoam cup full of the black brew. He took his usual spot at a corner of the conference table. He stayed alert and was able to pay attention to the meeting, and was supremely relieved that his part in this particular case was minor. Near the end of the time period set aside for the meeting, though, Rhodes mentioned his name.

"Stoker," said Rhodes. "Your report was great. Any questions there, from anyone?"

Everyone at the table shook their heads.

"Good. Your piece on this case is done, then. So what I need from you now, is to be the wrap-up guy for a couple of other reports that need to get put together. It shouldn't be a big deal, but it needs to get done and sent to the typing pool so the girl who's there on Saturdays will have it by the morning. You'll work with Harris, Bruneau, and Panella, to put their stuff together with yours into a single brief we can hand to the DA on Monday. You okay with that?"

Mike hesitated, not entirely sure what to say. His heart sank, and the knots in his stomach tightened at the idea of a new deadline, right in the middle of everything. But surely Roy or Joanne could pick Johnny up, assuming they even let him out tonight. And with enough caffeine, he'd make it through. Somehow.

"Mike?" Rhodes repeated.

"Uh, yeah. I can do that. It's just, I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon, for the complications with the leg, but I'll just stay late if I need to in order to finish up."

"Good man," Rhodes said. "All right, gentlemen, let's get back to it," he concluded, signaling the end of the meeting. Harris followed Rhodes out of the room, but flicked his eyes back towards Mike just once,

Mike sat at the conference table and finished his coffee. It was going to be a damned long day, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it, except push his way through, the way he would have at a fire, years before. _That's it_, he thought. _Treat it like a fire. It's still a fire—just one that happened a while ago—and you're still fighting it, but with physical evidence and witness testimony, instead of muscle and water_.

Cheered somewhat by the realization that he actually had a real task to do—something meaningful—he hauled himself out of his chair, and made his way back to his office. He got out his copies of the drafts of the reports from Harris, Bruneau, and Panella, and started reading. Harris's report on witness testimony was coherent and reasonably written. Bruneau's report about the insurance company's concerns about the fire was impeccable in grammar and mechanics, but was low on substance, and about four times as long as it needed to be.

Mike shook his head as he read and re-read Panella's draft. The report on the suspect's statements to the arson investigators was extremely difficult to read, and the utter lack of punctuation, aside from periods, made it impossible to determine what were direct quotes and what was paraphrasing. He'd definitely have to get to Panella first, to sort out which statements were quotes and which were not. For the umpteenth time since beginning this part of his career, Mike silently thanked his English-teacher mother for drumming good writing skills into his skull from an early age. He went down the hall to make copies of each report, and got to work.

Two hours later, with red pen, scissors, tape, and white-out, he at least had something to start with. He'd given Panella the task of adding quotation marks where they were needed to a copy of his report, and had told him he needed the revision by four p.m. He locked his office door, and started down the hallway. He stopped, suddenly thinking of the mess his house was in, and returned to his office. He made a photocopy of everything he'd done so far, and left it in his own mailbox in the mailroom before he left, just as a backup. He hated feeling so suspicious and paranoid, but as Deputy Price had said, it was necessary. And, Mike reflected, if someone actually _is_ out to get you, it's not paranoia—it's reality.

~!~!~!~!~

Mike arrived at Rampart right on time, and went straight in to the ER for his appointment with Dr. Early. A nurse showed him into a treatment room, and Mike sat back on the exam table and closed his eyes—just for a second, he promised himself.

"Mike?" a quiet voice said, what seemed like hours later.

"Mm?" he replied, having no idea who he was replying to.

"Can you open your eyes? Are you awake?"

Mike's eyes snapped open, and he sat up suddenly. "Uh, sorry. Hi, Dr. Early."

"Betty said you were here, and that you didn't look very well. I'm afraid I have to agree with her. Are you feeling okay?"

Mike took inventory. He was exhausted, and now that he thought about it, he felt even sicker than he had the previous evening. He'd been feeling hot, then cold, then hot again, but had chalked it up to exhaustion and too much caffeine.

"Well, Doc, now that I think about it, I guess I'm not feeling all that great. I think I'm just tired, though."

"Let's see about that," said Early. He stuck a thermometer under Mike's tongue, and got a set of vitals while the mercury rose. He took the thermometer out after a suitable period of time, and frowned at it.

"Mike, your pulse and blood pressure are both elevated by quite a bit, and you're running a fever of nearly a hundred and one degrees. Do you have any other symptoms?"

"I haven't slept more than four hours any night in the last week, for one thing. And, come to think of it, my knee doesn't feel great. Not my knee, but, you know, where that screw got loose last weekend."

"Have you been keeping up with the antibiotics?" Dr. Early asked.

Everything lurched sideways briefly, and Mike closed his eyes against the sudden dizziness. He knew he'd been forgetting something important.

"No," he admitted. "To tell the truth, I completely forgot all about them, what with everything that's been going on," he said shakily.

"Mike, it certainly looks like you have some kind of infection," Dr. Early said neutrally. "Let's get a shot of penicillin into you, first of all," he said, as he reached into a cabinet and began loading a syringe. "Drop your trousers, please, and I promise I'll make it quick, and then I'll get you some Tylenol for the fever."

Mike sighed, and bowed to the inevitable. True to his word, Dr. Early delivered the shot with no fuss and minimal pain, and Mike buckled up again. Dr. Early then handed Mike two Tylenol tablets and a cup of water, and Mike wordlessly took the medication and tossed the cup in the trash.

"Why don't you have a seat, Mike," said Dr. Early, motioning to one of the chairs next to the exam table.

Mike cooperated, and Early took the other chair.

"I don't know you well," Dr. Early said, "but it doesn't seem like you to simply not take antibiotics that were prescribed to you. You said you forgot all about them, which also doesn't seem like you, and you mentioned that a lot has been going on. Now, I hear through the grapevine that Johnny's upstairs, but I don't know the specifics. And, when you were here on Sunday, you said someone's been giving you some trouble. Is there anything you want to talk about?"

Mike looked at Dr. Early, and remembered Johnny's description of him as having the same kind of calmness as Len Sterling. He saw Joe Early's kind face, and recalled the total lack of judgment he'd felt from the man when he was his patient on Sunday, and something within Mike just gave way. He started talking, beginning with the message on his door a week ago. He went on, and on, crossing back and forth from talking about the harassment, vandalism and violence, to talking about how resentful he was that he had to keep his pictures of Johnny in a drawer instead of on his desk, to his utter rage towards the unknown people who had hurt Johnny. He covered it all, and made no bones about expressing the humiliation that the harassers had desired and achieved. He talked until he became hoarse, and Dr. Early brought him another cup of water. He drank the water, and kept talking, and talking.

"And I feel like total crap, and I have to go back to work and stay late, because there's no choice—I _have_ to get that report done. And I don't even know how I'm getting Johnny home, or where the hell we're even _going_, since it's sure as shit not gonna be our house. And I have to be strong for him, because it's my turn, and he's actually letting me take _care_ of him, Doc—he's _letting_ me, do you have any idea how hard that is for him?—but I'm such a wreck right now I don't even know if I _can _take care of him. And I don't even know how I'm going to make it through the rest of the _day_, let alone whatever else is coming."

And, just like that, he was done. There was nothing left to say—it had all poured out of him, onto Dr. Early. Who had listened intently to every word, and who had not interrupted him, not even once, not even to tell him not to be so hard on himself.

"Mike, I'm not going to tell you what to do," Dr. Early said finally.

"Jesus, Doc, I wish you would, please," Mike begged. "Because I'm at the end of my rope. No, scratch that. I fell off the end of my rope, sometime around yesterday after lunch, and now I'm just plummeting, and I don't even know where the bottom is. All I know is that at the bottom? There's not mattresses, or haystacks, or trampolines—it's sure to be broken glass, or shit, or maybe cactuses. Horse cripplers," he concluded.

"All right—what I really mean," Early said calmly, "is that I'm happy to give you some advice, and it's up to you whether or not you choose to take it."

"Lay it on me, Doc. I'm begging you."

"First, you said you were about to go see Johnny. Do that—for as long or as short a time as you need. Then, I'd like you to come back down here. I have a couch in my office, and I think you should sleep for an hour or so. I'll wake you up—I promise—and you can go back to your office and finish up your report."

Mike stared at him. "You're not going to tell me I should just go home, and that I shouldn't try to finish that report?"

"You wouldn't take that advice anyhow, would you?"

"No," Mike admitted. "I have to get it done. There's just no choice."

"I understand that, you see," Early said mildly. "So I'm trying to help you find a way to get through what you're going to put yourself through anyhow."

"Oh."

"And as for Johnny—you mentioned you've been staying with the DeSotos. Do you think one of them could pick him up this afternoon?"

"I'd thought about that. I'll see what I can do."

"Why don't we call them right now?" Dr. Early said. He stood up, and took the handset off the phone on the wall. "What's the number?"

Mike pulled out his wallet, and rattled off the number from a sheet of paper he'd tucked in with some receipts. Early pressed the numbers on the phone's keypad, and stretched the phone cord across the room, handing the receiver to Mike.

"_Hello_?"

"Roy? It's Mike Stoker. Listen—this is ridiculous, and I feel awful, but I just got a new deadline put on me at work, and I'm supposed to pick Johnny up later, and I can't, and I don't even know if they're letting him out tonight or not, and I feel terrible even asking, but—"

Roy interrupted him gently. "_Mike, relax. I can pick him up, all right? Have you talked to him? They're letting him out at four, and he wasn't sure if you'd be done at work by then, and he couldn't reach you at your office, so it's all arranged. I'll pick him up, and take him to our house, and you can come over whenever you're done at work_."

Mike let out a huge breath, and sat up a little straighter. "Thanks, Roy. Thanks a lot. I'm just kind of—well, thanks."

"_Are you okay? You sound kind of frazzled_."

"I'll make it," said Mike. "I'm running on too little sleep and too much caffeine and adrenaline. 'Frazzled' doesn't even _begin_ to cover it, but I'll make it. And don't tell Johnny, all right? I'm about to go see him, and—aw, hell, he'll figure it out anyhow, so forget it. Just—well, thanks, okay? I don't know what time I'll show up, but I'll show up. Probably late. So people shouldn't wait up."

"No problem," said Roy. "There's a jade plant on the front steps—I'll leave a key underneath it for you."

"I don't even know what a jade plant is," Mike said. "Is it one of those juicy ones, or one of those leafy ones? Or flowers, or what? As long as it's not a cactus, because I can't stand the—"

Roy interrupted again. "It's the only plant on the porch. And it's not a cactus. It's perfectly harmless. Take your time—show up whenever you can. And don't worry, all right? Joanne and I are pretty good at taking care of Gage, even if we're a little out of practice."

"Thanks, Roy. Thanks a million. See you later—well, probably tomorrow."

Mike stood up, hung up the phone, and felt a little lighter than before.

"Sounds like it's all taken care of," said Dr. Early. "Now, hop back up on that table, and roll your pants leg up, and we'll see about those stitches."

"Stitches?" Mike had completely forgotten about the actual reason for his visit to Dr. Early. "Oh. Sure."

Dr. Early looked at the stitches, and went to the cabinet for supplies. "I'm just going to clean around the stitches with some Betadine, and then I'll snip them out. You'll feel a little sting when each stitch pulls through, but that's all—I promise."

"Okay," said Mike. "I'm not gonna look, though."

"That's fine—just sit back and relax, and I'll be done in about two minutes."

Again true to his word, Dr. Early took the stitches out with minimal discomfort to Mike. In fact, he noticed that the most uncomfortable part of the procedure was the annoying tickle of the Betadine swab. Dr. Early placed a new bandage over the area, and rolled Mike's pant leg down for him. He returned to the cabinet, and fished out several bottles. He set one bottle on the counter, and then put a few tablets from another bottle into an empty pill bottle. He wrote something on the blank label of the second bottle, and then handed them both to Mike.

"All right, Mike. Here's a new course of antibiotics. Please, try to remember to take them, one tablet, three times a day, until they're all gone. You can start tomorrow. If you find they upset your stomach, take them with some crackers or bread."

"I think I'll remember this time," Mike said sheepishly. "What's the other one? Chlor … dia … something or other?"

"The other one is a mild sedative—just four tablets, total. Take one at bedtime, just for the next few days. If you want to."

"I don't love the idea, Doc, but I'm a total wreck, so thanks."

"I'd like you to try to avoid caffeine for the next few days, as well. It seems like you've had an awful lot today, and it sounds like you'll use some more to make it through the evening. But it's a bit of a dangerous road," he cautioned, "to use a stimulant to keep yourself going during the day, and then a sedative to get to sleep at night. So tomorrow—and the whole weekend, in fact—no caffeine. If you get a headache, which you probably will, take some Tylenol."

"Got it. No caffeine tomorrow or Sunday. Not a drop. Roy's got this chamomile tea. I'll drink that instead."

"Perfect," proclaimed Early. "Just what the doctor ordered. Now—go upstairs and see Johnny, and then come back and take a nap."

"If it's all the same to you, Doc, I actually think I'll be better off if I skip the nap and just plow through. Some people can nap and wake up refreshed, but not me."

"Up to you," said Early. "You know yourself better than I do, so if that's what sounds right to you, that's probably what's best for you."

"Thanks, though, for the offer. And—thanks for listening. It really helped. A lot."

"You're welcome. Any time—and I mean that."

"Thanks. And Doc, I promise—I'm not going to do anything stupid."

"Good. Now go see Johnny—and tell him I said hello."

"I will."

An hour after he'd arrived at Rampart for his ten-minute appointment, Mike took the elevator up to the fifth floor.

~!~!~!~!~

By 1:20, Johnny was starting to wonder whether Mike was going to be able to make it after his 12:30 appointment or not. It was always possible that the ER was running busy, and he'd had to wait to get his stitches out, but if that was the case, he could've waited in room 521, where he was supposed to be right now anyhow. Fred was downstairs getting one of his casts replaced, so Johnny had the room to himself. He was tempted to get up and pace for a while, but decided the risks outweighed the benefits. Just as Johnny was about to pick up the phone to dial Mike's office, there was a quick knock at the door, followed by the distinctive footsteps of someone walking with a cane.

The curtains parted, and Mike swooped in. He stood at the side of the bed, and stared at Johnny for a second, bloodshot eyes quivering slightly.

Johnny looked back, his own right eye getting wider as he took in the rest of the picture. "Wow. Are you okay? You look mmfff—"

Mike let his cane clatter to the floor, and, taking Johnny's face gently in his hands, kissed him hard. His tongue immediately sought—and found—entrance, and his hands roamed through Johnny's hair, to his neck and shoulders, arms, and carefully, softly, over his rib cage.

Johnny imagined that Mike was checking to make sure he was there, and solid. He put his own hands to Mike's face, caressing his cheeks, ears, the back of his head—reassuring him, _yes, yes, I'm here._ He heard, and felt, the frantic pace of Mike's breathing slow to something approaching normal, echoing the slowing of Mike's movement of his hands and tongue. Slowly, the frenetic spicy-hot kiss settled into a sweet, intoxicating treat, like a frosty mint julep on a sweltering day.

Johnny opened his eyes again when Mike pulled away, and could once again believe he was looking at the same person he'd been living with for the last two and a half years.

"_That's_ what he meant," Johnny said aloud.

"Huh?" Mike raised an eyebrow, not sure he'd understood what Johnny had said. "What's what who meant? If that's even a real sentence."

"Never mind—just something Cap'n Stanley said on the phone yesterday, is all. You okay?" he asked again.

"Strung out on waaaaay too much coffee. Got my stitches out, though," Mike said proudly, "without fainting." He intentionally omitted the shot of penicillin and the forty-minute verbal purge he'd laid on Dr. Early. "You look a lot better—a _lot_."

"Yeah, I got to have protein and plenty of liquids today, and that sure made me feel better. Best news is, the bleeding is way down, so they're springing me at around four. I, uh, hope you don't mind, but I arranged with Roy for him to pick me up—I wasn't sure if you'd be done with work by then, and you didn't answer your office phone."

"No, I definitely won't be done by four. Ten, maybe; or nine if I'm really efficient—but not four." He explained his new deadline. "But then that's it for the heavy lifting for a while—the case goes to trial next week, and I'm not involved in that part."

Mike sat down in the chair next to Johnny's bed, and immediately wished he hadn't. Getting up again, and leaving, was going to be challenging. "Oh, sitting down was _not_ a good idea," he sighed. He leaned over to take Johnny's hand, but absolutely did _not _allow himself to put his head down. "I hate to say it, but I gotta go."

"Already?" Johnny looked at Mike with concern. "You just got here."

"Yeah. But honest to god, Johnny—I'm so tired, and I have so much work to finish tonight, that I think every minute I sit here is gonna turn into ten minutes later I'm at the office. So I gotta bite the bullet, babe, and go back to the office. But all afternoon, I'll be thinking about getting back to the DeSotos' tonight, and finding you sleeping all spread out all over that flowery bed in that flowery room, taking up the whole damned mattress so I have to rearrange you like a rag doll before I can climb in next to you and wrap myself around you like a jellyfish, and feel your warm skin all over mine so I know you're alive, and I'm alive, and damn, I'm gonna stop right there, babe." Mike groaned and fought gravity and inertia as he forced himself up out of the chair.

Johnny clutched Mike's hand, pulling him back a bit. "One for the road?" he asked, hopefully.

"Just try and stop me," Mike said, and went back in for a kiss that turned into a mirror image of their last one, starting slowly and gently, but spiraling upwards until Mike had no doubt that Johnny was feeling better, and that he himself would make it through the day.

With supreme willpower, Mike finally pulled himself away. He straightened up, and reached down to brush Johnny's hair off his forehead. "That'll keep me going till I'm done. I'll see you as soon as I can."

"Love you," Johnny said quietly. "Drive safe, okay?"

"Love you too. See you tonight. Probably late."

Johnny watched Mike swish through the curtain, and listened to his uneven footsteps as he walked to the door. He got out of bed, and opened the curtain partition so the sunlight from the window over Fred's bed could make it across to his side of the room. He got back in the bed, and sat there, waiting for whatever was going to happen next.

**TBC**


	32. Reports

**Chapter 32: Reports  
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_3:30 pm, Friday._

Mike had just received Panella's revised report, with quotation marks added as requested, and was transferring them to his pasted-up version of the brief that would include all four of the reports that Rhodes had asked him to integrate. Mike thought that maybe by six or so he'd be done with the major work of integrating the pieces of the documents in ways that made sense, and would then take a dinner break to clear his head before proofing the final version he'd send to the typists. Despite being loaded with coffee and Tylenol, he had a splitting headache, and was definitely noticing throbbing near his knee.

He set everything aside for a moment, and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. He was absolutely, positively not putting his head down on the desk, because that would be it.

The ringing of the phone sent Mike a foot in the air, even though he was seated and felt less on edge than he had all day.

"Go away," he said to the phone, as if it would magically stop ringing.

It didn't. Mike realized he really didn't care who it was, or what they wanted, as long as it didn't add to tonight's workload. The double ring of a call from an outside line persisted, so Mike gave in.

"Arson/Fire Investigation, Mike Stoker."

There was a short pause on the line.

"Hello?"

And then the static started, and a familiar, hated voice came on.

"_Well, hello! We're sure you've noticed our redecorating and renovations by now. How do you like them? We thought the color was very fitting. Hopefully your poor neighbors won't be any more disturbed than they already are._"

Mike said nothing. He wasn't sure why, but he didn't hang up.

"_Come now, don't be shy! We'd love to know what you think! We tried to reach the pretty Captain today, but for some reason, he wasn't at his station. Maybe he's not so pretty right now, hmm? Or maybe he finally got our message, even though we really didn't have a chance to deliver it properly._"

That did it.

"LISTEN UP, YOU SICK FUCK! If you ever, _EVER_ go near him again, you're gonna wish you were never born! You're gonna wish your _parents_ were never born! And if you think the cops aren't about one day away from busting your sorry asses, well, you're stupider than I think. So if you know what's good for you, you will _stay_ the _fuck_ away from him, and our house, and if you can't stay away from me, then you'll find out a thing or two about dirty fighting."

"_Oh, you think a gimpy fag like you will be a challenge? At least Gage put up a little bit of a fight—but we've seen you, and you need a cane to even walk, and—_"

But Mike didn't hear the rest. He threw the phone across the room, not realizing that Wes Harris was standing in his doorway.

"Holy shit, Stoker! Jesus! What the _fuck_ is the matter with you? Why are you such a lunatic all of a sudden?"

"Why?" Mike shouted at him. "_Why_? You wanna know _why_? _Fine_! Come in, sit down, shut up, and I'll _tell_ you why!"

Wes wanted to flee, but he also wanted to know what could have possibly pushed this extremely mild-mannered person into a manic rage the likes of which he'd never seen in his life. So he went into the office, shut the door, picked up Stoker's phone, and replaced it on his desk. He sat in the chair in front of the desk, and waited.

"You wanna know _why_?" Mike yanked his picture drawer open, and pulled out the picture of Johnny in action at an MVA scene, and slammed it down on the desk in front of Wes. "_That's_ why. He got the crap kicked out of him two nights ago, by some people from our very own County Fire Department, who don't like that 'one of us' is a Captain. He's getting released from Rampart in about fifteen minutes, and I can't pick him up and take him home with me, because I'm stuck here till God knows when. And even if I _could_ pick him up, I _still_ wouldn't be able to take him home, because our fine colleagues trashed our house."

"You wanna know _why_ I threw my phone across the room? Because our colleagues—yours and mine, Wes—even though I don't know who they are, I know they work with us—just called me to gloat, is _why_. And you know what? We don't know them, and we don't even know how they got a hold of our address, our phone numbers. Someone who doesn't even know us, hates us so much that Johnny's in the hospital and our house is boarded up."

Wes started turning a greenish shade of pale, but Mike didn't notice, and wouldn't have cared even if he had been aware of his colleague's change in coloring.

"And you know what else? I'm sick of hiding these," Mike shouted, stabbing his finger at the picture he'd put in front of Wes, and then setting the photo up on the desk. "So _this_ one is going _here_, and that one—" he reached into the drawer and brought out the beach photo, setting it on the desk— "is going _there_, and _this_ one—" he pulled out the photo Dixie had taken of the two of them on the deck in the afternoon sun in their back yard, and practically shoved it in Wes's face— "is going _right_ the fuck _here_, front and center, just like everyone else's goddamned wedding picture. And if people don't like it?" He gestured to the sixth-floor window. "There's the fucking exit."

Mike locked eyes with Wes, and swiped his hand across his face to clear away the sweat that had beaded up on his lip. He sat back down in his chair, and did his best to slow his breathing.

"Now you know why I'm pissed. So the least you can do is tell me why you came down here in the first place," he said, suddenly and chillingly back to his usual calm voice.

"Uh ..." Wes started. "I, uh, wanted to see how your draft was coming, because, uh, Rhodes wanted me to check up on you."

"It's going fine," Mike said, with supreme calmness. "I got what I needed from Panella, and I'm maybe an hour and a half or two from finishing the pasted-up version with everything all put together. Then I was going to take a break, before I read the whole thing over, start to finish. Are you on your way out?"

"Nnn … not quite yet," Wes said shakily. "I, uh, have some things I need to take care of."

"Well. You know where to find me if you need anything," said Mike. "And, by the way—you're looking a little pale, Wes. Sorry I blew up like that. I hope I didn't freak you out." Mike neither looked nor felt sorry, but he figured it was the right thing to say.

"No. Uh, not really. I just—" Wes stood up and backed away. "I have to make a phone call. I'll see you later."

Mike watched him go, and went back to work.

~!~!~!~!~

Wes hurried back to his office, not quite running, but not quite walking either. He entered his office, and slammed and locked the door. He sat at his desk, hands shaking, and flipped through his Rolodex until he got to the name he was looking for.

"_Hello_?"

"Staib, you fucking liar," Wes said without preamble.

"_Uh, Harris? What's going on_?"

"You're not his friend from high school. You're not pulling harmless pranks, are you!"

"_What are you talking about, Wes_?"

"Don't play dumb, you piece of shit. You and your flunky—you put John Gage in the hospital, did you know that?"

"_Oh, come on, Wes. Don't pretend you actually _like_ these fags_."

"It doesn't fucking matter who or what I do or don't like, Staib! You used me—I see it now—you've been getting me to feed you little tidbits here and there, and then you've used it to fuck with Stoker and Gage!"

"_Wes, Wes, Wes. Now really, tell me the truth—did you actually believe my shtick about a prank war? Did you really think this was all in good fun? You can't possibly be dumb enough to have actually believed that crap. And you feel the same way as I do about having _them_ in the department._"

"You trashed their house, and you put Gage in the hospital!"

"_An eye for an eye, Harris—after all, look what happened to Lynn. She's _still_ in the hospital._"

"What the fuck are you talking about now, Staib?"

"_Oh, it doesn't matter. Huh. Okay, so maybe you _did_ actually believe I was just having a little fun with your new buddy Mike. My 'old friend,' right?" _Staib chuckled_. "You're awfully trusting, you know. But too bad for you, Wes—you're in it up to your neck. Who's gonna believe you thought this was all for fun and games? Hell, I don't even think _I_ really believe it_."

"Well, believe it, Staib. We're through."

"_Oh, really? Are you going to call the cops and tell them all about how you 'just realized' how you've been so terribly, terribly used? What a sad story. And so unlikely, too. Sadly, I think you'll find that if I go down? You go down too. So think about that before you do anything even stupider than you've already done. Think about whether protecting two limp-wristed queers—and why they made one of them a Captain is completely beyond me—is worth your career. Think about whether you really didn't know what I was doing when I asked you all those questions about my 'old buddy' Mike. Think about it, Wes. Because we're _not_ 'through,' and you know it._" Staib paused. "_See you around the department, __Harris. And don't work too late—it's Friday. You should go out tonight and have some fun. I know I will._" Click.

It was Wes's turn to put his head on his desk, and wonder how the hell he was going to fix his life.

~!~!~!~!~

An hour later, HQ was nearly deserted for the weekend. Wes Harris emerged from the sixth-floor break room with a fresh pot of coffee and two mugs. He knocked on Mike Stoker's door, which, unusually for him, was completely closed.

"Come in."

Wes opened the door, and was relieved to see that Mike was sitting calmly at his desk, every available surface covered with pasted up pages of the report he was working on.

"I just made a fresh pot of coffee—you want some?"

Mike looked up. "Sure. Thanks." He stood up, and limped over to a small table on the other side of the room. "I don't dare drink coffee at my desk when I'm so fried like this," he said, as Wes set the mugs on the table and poured coffee into them. "I'd spill it. For sure. All over everything."

"Good thinking," said Wes.

"What are you still doing here, anyhow?"

"I, uh, realized I'd made a mistake in, um, another project I've been working on. I'm gonna have to stick around to make sure I take care of it properly this time."

"Huh."

"So, I'm probably going to be around for a while. I can read your brief when you're done, if you want."

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Seriously? I mean, I'm probably not gonna be done pasting it up for another hour, at least. I'm not exactly at my best right now, you know. I think this is my twentieth cup of coffee today. Literally."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure I'll be here at least as long as you, so it's no problem. We could look it over together—maybe even get you out of here a little sooner."

"Okay," Mike said. "Really—that'd be great. To be honest, I'm so fried that it would be really good to have another set of eyes on it before I send it to the typists."

"I'll do that, then. And hey, I was about to maybe get some dinner—order a pizza or something. You wanna go in on something?"

Mike shuddered. "Anything but pizza, all right? I guess I'm kind of … pizzaphobic right now."

"Uh, do I even want to know how you can become a pizzaphobe?"

"Probably not, but it looks like I'm telling you anyhow. Johnny was picking up a pizza when he got the shit beat out of him the other day. That did it."

"Chinese, then? I know a place that delivers to HQ."

"Chinese I can do."

"Okay—I'll order it. The guy knows me, so I'll just get him to deliver it to the front entrance, and I'll grab it down there. Whaddaya want?"

"I don't care. Chicken something or other. The spicier the better."

"All right. I'll see you in like an hour or so."

"Great." Mike set his empty mug back down on the small table, and looked up at Wes. "Really. Thanks a lot. And, uh, I hope your problem with your other project isn't too serious. Let me know if there's anything you need a hand with, all right?"

"Thanks," Wes said, looking green around the gills again. "I'll let you know."

~!~!~!~!~

Fifty minutes later, Mike had assembled nearly sixty pages of cut-and-pasted, margin-noted, heavily edited reports into a thick sheaf. He put a binder clip at the top to hold it all together, and went down to the copy room and carefully copied each page. He took the copy and the original back to his office, and set them both on the desk. He picked up the phone, and dialed the DeSotos' number.

"_Hello, DeSoto residence_," a female voice answered. Mike had no idea whether he was listening to Joanne or Jenny.

"Hi, it's Mike Stoker."

"_Uncle Mike! Guess what—Uncle Johnny's here, and he's way better! I made sure he had a good dinner, and now he's watching TV with Dad._"

Mike smiled. "That's great, Jenny. Do you think there's a phone that would reach to where he is? I don't want him to get up."

"_You bet. This one has a really long cord, so I can stretch it alllllll the way out there. Here he is._" Jenny didn't put her hand over the receiver, and Mike listened with amusement as she announced, "Uncle Johnny, it's Uncle Mike. He wants to talk to you, but you're not allowed to get up. Daddy, please turn the TV down so he can hear, okay?"

"_Hi, Mike! You hangin' in there?_"

"Pretty much," Mike said. "I had one kind of, um, explosion, but I think it's all okay now. I'm about to have dinner. Chinese. From a place that delivers."

"_Great—you know, we really oughta find a pizza place that delivers._"

"Babe, I don't think I'm gonna want pizza again for a really, really long time."

"_Oh. Well, Chinese is good too._"

"Yeah." Mike smiled. "Remember when you snuck Chinese in when I was on the rehab unit at Rampart?"

"_Uh-huh._" Mike could tell just from those syllables that Johnny was grinning.

"That was a pretty good lunch, babe."

"_Yeah, it sure was._"

"Especially the dessert course."

"_Especially that,_" Johnny agreed. _"I call do-overs."_

"Too bad you're under strict orders to rest," said Mike.

"_I won't be forever, you know. See what your fortune cookie says about, say, next weekend._"

"You're on, babe." Mike looked up to see Harris waving some white cartons in through the partially open door. "Listen, I gotta go. What is it, like seven o'clock?"

"_Yeah_."

"I might, just _might_, be done by nine or so. But don't wait up, all right?"

"_Okay—I think I'll be in big trouble with Dr. Jenny if I say up past nine anyhow. But promise me you'll wake me up when you come in, all right?_"

"It goes against my grain, but okay. See you later."

"_Bye_."

Mike put the phone down, and heaved himself out of his chair.

"Chow's here," Harris said unnecessarily.

"Great—how much do I owe you?"

"I don't know—like five bucks?"

Mike followed Harris to the break room, leaning heavily on his cane. Before he sat down, he pulled out his wallet and passed a five dollar bill over to Wes.

"Your leg worse than the other day?" Wes asked, figuring that was potentially a less volatile topic than anything else he could think of.

"Yeah," admitted Mike, digging in to his carton of food. "What with everything, I forgot I was supposed to take the antibiotics, and now there's some kind of infection."

"That sucks," Wes said.

"I think it's getting better, though. I got a shot of penicillin this afternoon, and I don't feel as sick as I did this morning. I guess Rhodes must've noticed I was off my feed, if he asked you to stick around on a Friday to look over my stuff."

"Yeah," Wes said nervously. "Well, you did look pretty tired."

"Twenty-one cups of coffee later, though, I'm ready to do a final read-through. Hopefully when you look at it, it won't turn out to be in Italian, or Japanese, or secret code or something."

"I'm sure it's fine. You're the best writer of anyone in our group, you know. When Neil Broker retired and Rhodes hired you—well, I was a little worried about how you'd be, since last time we got someone who was invalided out of active firefighting, it was a disaster. He wasn't really into the work—just wanted something to do," said Harris. "He quit and went to teach at the academy instead, I think."

"Huh," said Mike. "Well, I'd been thinking about this field even before I got messed up. I knew I'd be a lousy Captain, and when you hit your mid thirties, you kind of start to think about what's next. I mean, even just standing around in turnout gear and an air pack is a lot of work after a while."

"I wouldn't know," said Wes.

"I sometimes think," Mike said, picking through his carton of food, "the department oughta make anyone who's not in Operations put on some gear and get into the training facility for a live burn. Or do a ride-along with a paramedic squad when they get ten runs in a row over night. Then maybe there'd be a little less bitching about how firemen get to just sit around the station watching TV half the time."

"Maybe," agreed Wes. "I guess I've been at enough scenes while they were still doing overhaul, though, that I got a little idea of the stress of the job, even though I did come here straight out of college."

"Oh, I didn't mean _you_," Mike said. "Sorry. I should just tape my mouth shut with duct tape until I've had at least one decent night's sleep. Whenever _that_ might happen," he added. "Or _wherever_."

"Where are you staying, anyhow?"

"Oh, with another buddy of ours from 51s. He was Johnny's paramedic partner back in the day. He and his wife are putting us up till we get things straightened out." Mike finished what he could of his meal, and tossed the carton in the trash. He noted Wes appeared to be done as well.

"Well, I'm gonna get back to it," Mike said. "You said you could read over the brief—you still up for that, or do you have something to do with your mysterious other project?"

"No, I'm, kind of stuck here waiting for something on that one. So I'm all yours."

"Thanks. Maybe with two sets of eyes on this, it'll turn out to be coherent after all."

Mike let Harris back into his office, and handed him the photocopy of the pasted-up brief. "This was a total pain in the ass," he said, as he settled down at his desk with the original. "Maybe someday they'll invent a better way to do this. Maybe, I don't know, move paragraphs around on a TV screen or something. I don't even know, but there has to be a better way."

"You know what would be cool?" Wes said. "If you could just talk into a microphone, and what you said would come out all typed up."

"In your dreams, man. Anyhow, give me a yell if you see something weird, and I'll fix it on my copy." Mike shook his head, looking at his document. "I don't even know how the typists are gonna be able to decode all this garbage."

Wes looked the document over. "Well, your handwriting is neat, at least. And if I can follow it, I'm sure they'll be able to, also. Still, you should probably put the name and number of the people you're staying with on the typing order, just in case they need to ask you anything."

"I'll do that," Mike said. And then, they got down to the business of proofing the brief.

Mike made it through the first page. He _thought_ he was awake, until his neck suddenly jerked his head up, and he realized he'd fallen asleep briefly. He sighed, picked up his papers, and started pacing the room as he read.

"Uh, what are you doing?" Wes asked, keeping his distance.

"If I stay sitting down, I'm just gonna keep falling asleep. I don't think I'll pass out if I'm up and moving," Mike explained.

"I don't know how you did it," Wes said, shaking his head. "This is all perfectly coherent. Even the parts I know came from Panella. And if you can make his shit coherent—well, you deserve a medal. There was this one thing on page three, though." Wes went on to point out a small inconsistency, which Mike fixed.

Two hours and three coffees later, Mike was satisfied that he'd done the best he could. He photocopied everything one more time, and put the original, along with the typing pool request form that included his temporary contact information, into a huge binder clip.

"Well, I guess that's that," Mike said. "Thanks a lot, Wes. You caught a lot of things I missed." He handed the packet, with the typing request form on the top, to Wes. "Can you hold this for a second?"

Wes took the packet, and glanced at the form while Mike locked up his desk and grabbed his cane. Mike was lucky indeed—the friend he was staying with lived really close to HQ.

"So," Mike asked as Wes handed the packet back. "Do you still have to hang around for your other project, or can you get out of here too?"

"No, I'm getting out too. C'mon—let's get this thing down to the typists, and then get the hell out of here. It's nine thirty," said Wes, "and my wife is gonna _kill_ me."

They took the elevator down to the first floor, and put the packet in the file holder on the door of the typing pool's office suite. Together, they went out the front entrance of HQ, to the staff parking lot.

The lot was nearly deserted late on a Friday night.

"Shit," said Mike. "I'm all the way in the back. There were no good spots when I got back from the doctor's appointment earlier."

"Bummer," said Wes. They walked three quarters of the way down the lot, and Wes stopped at a Ford sedan. "This is me."

"Thanks a lot, Wes," Mike said. "And—I'm really sorry I totally lost it with you earlier. To say it's been a bad week would be the understatement of the decade."

"Don't worry about it," said Wes. "See you Monday."

Wes got in his car. Mike wasn't thinking about anything other than how he was going to stay awake for the short drive to the DeSotos', and didn't notice that the Ford's engine didn't come on. He trudged down to the very end of the parking lot, where there was just his pickup truck and one other vehicle. He made it to his truck, and blindly jabbed his key at the lock on the driver's door.

He missed the lock—he was high by about four inches. He looked down to try again, and realized why he'd missed.

All four tires were flat.

"It figures," he said aloud. "It just _fucking FIGURES_!"

He looked around the area, and his eyes lit on a pay phone at the corner of the lot. Mike sighed, and fished in his pocket for a dime as he walked to the phone.

Three quarters of the way there, he tripped over something invisible, and fell flat on his face. He lay there, stunned. For a minute, he thought he'd just stay there, have a nap, and worry about it all later.

Then he heard the footsteps, and the voice.

"See? I told you you wouldn't be much of a challenge."

Mike lifted his head, and saw a tall blond man he'd never laid eyes on before in his life standing just in front of him. The man took a step forward, and another step. From his resting place on the pavement, Mike noticed that the pointed toes of the man's cowboy boots curled slightly upwards from wear.

"And_ I_ told _you_ that you'd learn something about dirty fighting," Mike said. He swung his cane upwards, as hard and as fast as he could, which wasn't very, from his awkward position on the ground. But it was enough to make an impact—Mike was rewarded with a thwacking sound and a shout from the man, who took two steps backwards, clutching his thigh. Mike struggled to his feet, all thoughts of exhaustion immediately gone.

"That's it, you fucking queer!" The man put his head down, and his fists up, and charged at Mike.

Mike was ready with his cane—he would use it like a bat, or an axe, he thought. But he never got a chance.

A dark streak flew in from the corner of Mike's vision, and suddenly his attacker, with another body on top of his, was on the pavement.

"Wes?" Mike exclaimed, as his co-worker rolled the attacker onto his belly and wrenched one of his arms behind his back.

Wes pinned the man onto the ground. The more Mike's assailant struggled, the harder Wes twisted his wrist up between his shoulder blades. "Go call the cops," Wes said.

Mike stood there and stared for a moment.

"Go!" said Wes.

"I'll go call the cops," Mike agreed, heading for the pay phone. He was more careful this time, and could now see a thin wire stretched from a tree near the phone to the bumper of the other car parked near his. He carefully stepped over the wire, and made his call.

"All right already," said Staib. "You can let me up now. Clever idea, that—sending him off to the phone. Come on, let's get out of here."

Wes gave the blond man another slam onto the ground for good measure, and said nothing.

"Oh," Staib said mildly. "Is that how it's gonna be? Do you really think the cops are going to believe that you had nothing to do with any of this? Don't forget—we're still in this together, Wesley."

"Shut the fuck up," said Wes. He put his knee in the small of Staib's back, and put most of his weight on his knee. There was no way Staib was going anywhere.

Mike returned, again stepping over the tripwire.

"They're on their way," he said. "Man, Wes—you saved my ass. That was a great tackle."

"College football," Wes said. "Keep your eyes on this guy—I think I've got him, but he's an oily snake."

Mike held his cane ready, and the three men, each apprehensive in his own way, awaited the arrival of the police.

Ninety seconds later, two black and white sheriff's cars screeched into the parking lot. One of the vehicles trained its spotlight on the three men. Two officers emerged from each vehicle.

"Everyone freeze!" said one of the officers. "You—" he said, pointing at Wes. "Off of him. Now. Hands where I can see 'em. All of you."

Wes reluctantly climbed off of Staib, who wisely didn't move. Mike dropped his cane, and put his hands up at mid-chest level. Wes did the same. Each of them was grabbed and pushed up against the side of Mike's truck. An officer frisked each of them down, and took their wallets out of their pockets. He removed their IDs from the wallets, and replaced the wallets in their back pockets. "Stay right there," the officer cautioned.

Two other officers hauled Staib up off the ground, and spread-eagled him up against the hood of the truck. One officer frisked him, reached into a front jacket pocket, and held up a switchblade. "Looks like you were looking for some trouble, pal." He continued his frisking, and pulled Staib's wallet and ID.

"All right," said the officer who appeared to be in charge. "Who called us?"

"Me," Mike said, not moving.

"What happened, here?" the officer continued.

"I was working late. I came out to my truck, and all the tires were flat. I was walking to the payphone to call a cab, and something tripped me. There's a wire between the bumper of that Chevy and the tree by the phone. I didn't see it at first, but if you look carefully, you can see it."

The officer in charge gestured for one of his colleagues to verify that statement. One of the deputies knelt on the ground, and looked back up. "Yep—looks like heavy-gauge fishing line," he said.

"Go on," the officer said to Mike.

"Then the guy on the hood of the truck, who I've never seen in my life, well—I was on the ground, and he started towards me. He said I wouldn't be much of a challenge. I hit him with my cane, once, and then Wes tackled him, and I called you guys when Wes had him on the ground."

"So you don't know this guy?" the officer asked Mike.

"No, but somebody vandalized my house, and somebody beat up my, uh, housemate two nights ago, and I think this is probably the same guy. I have about four reports filed with your branch up near my house. If you talk to Deputies Price or Houlihan, they can verify my story."

The officer picked up his radio. "Dispatch, this is Satcher in Car 87. Do you have a Deputy Price or Houlihan on the board tonight?"

"_Affirmative_," the radio answered a moment later. "_Price, at Station _5."

"Dispatch, get him on my channel, please."

"_Copy._"

While he was waiting, Satcher turned to the officer who was holding Staib. "You got an ID on that one?"

"William Staib."

Satcher's radio came to life again.

"_Satcher, this is Price. What've you got?_"

"I have a physical altercation in the parking lot of the County Fire Department headquarters, three individuals. I've got a Michael Stoker, who claims he's got multiple reports with your office, and who claims one of the other guys assaulted him, and he thinks this guy is the subject of your reports. The alleged assailant is William Staib. The other guy is Wesley Harris. Any of this mean anything to you?"

"_That's affirmative_," replied Price. "_Hold on to Staib—Tom DeVito just got a warrant for him on the incidents Mr. Stoker mentioned. The warrant includes aggravated assault and battery and a list of other charges. Stoker is the complainant on several of the charges_."

"Copy," said Satcher. "And Harris?"

"Got nothing on him," replied Price. "His name hasn't come up in the investigation."

Staib chuckled. "Yet," he said.

"Miranda," Satcher said instantly to the officer holding Staib. "And cuff him and get him in a car."

Mike was still frozen up against the side of his truck. He could hear Staib being read his rights, and shortly, heard a car door close.

"All right," Satcher said to Mike and Wes. "You two, turn around. I'm afraid I need you to come down to the station so I can get your statements. Then you'll be free to go."

"All right," said Mike. "Can I get something from my truck?"

"What is it?" Satcher asked.

"Medication," Mike replied. "I'm supposed to take antibiotics."

"Fine. You need that cane?" Satcher asked.

"'Fraid so," Mike said.

"I'll put it in the trunk. You can't have it in the back. Sorry, but that's the rules."

"It's all right."

Mike retrieved his pill bottles from the truck, and put them in his pocket. He and Wes were ushered into the back of the sedan, and whisked off to the station. Thirty seconds after the car started driving, Mike fell asleep, and Wes had to shake him awake when the car stopped at the station. He and Wes were ushered into separate interview rooms, and their statements were taken.

A long hour later, Mike had explained the evening's entire sequence of events again, and again, and again. A courier must have brought copies of all his and Johnny's previous reports, because someone came in and handed the deputy a stack of copies, and the deputy then began questioning Mike about each of the previous incidents. Several times, the deputy left the room, came back in, and asked more questions.

Finally, after Mike had relived the entire last week's events over and over, he was told he was free to leave.

"Uh …" He stood dumbly outside the interview room, wobbling on his feet. "What about Wes? Did he go home already?"

"Not quite yet," the deputy said vaguely.

"Oh." Mike assumed that since Wes had actually physically knocked Staib down, they might be holding him for longer. "You know, he doesn't have anything to do with any of this. He just happened to be there, and he saved my ass."

"All right," the deputy said. "Come on—I can take you back to your car, but that's it."

"Okay," Mike said dubiously. "I guess I need to take care of that, anyhow."

"Wait—your tires all got slashed, didn't they?" said the deputy. "All right—if you're not going too far, I can take you someplace else. Just as long as it's not too far outside this district."

Mike told him the DeSotos' address, praying silently to whoever was listening to let that not be too far.

"All right—c'mon. Get in the front this time."

"Thanks. I really appreciate it."

"Yeah, well, you look like shit. If I were a cabbie I'm not sure I'd pick you up."

"Thanks," Mike said dryly. "I probably wouldn't pick me up either."

It was after midnight by the time the black and white sedan pulled up in front of the DeSotos' house. Mike got out wearily, and trudged up to the porch. He looked at the one plant on the steps, and tipped it up to find the key. He let himself in the house, locked the door, and went to the kitchen. He opened the bottle of antibiotic tablets, and put one pill on the counter. He looked at the second bottle—was he really going to drug himself to sleep after struggling to stay awake for the last eighteen hours? But now that he was finally done with his ridiculous day, he suddenly didn't feel tired at all. He shrugged, took one tablet out of the second bottle, and set it on the counter as well. He filled a glass at the sink, and washed down both tablets.

Mike quietly climbed the stairs to the second floor, and slipped into the guest room. Moonlight streamed through the open curtains, falling on the bed. Sure enough, Johnny was sleeping diagonally across the entire bed, face down. He'd kicked the covers completely off of himself, and was lying there in his boxers. Just below the tape around Johnny's ribcage, Mike could see deep purple bruising from where Staib's cowboy boot toe had kicked him.

Mike stripped down to his boxers, but didn't bother with any of the rest of his nightly routine. From the foot of the bed, he took Johnny's feet and moved his legs and lower body just enough that there was room for one more body in the bed. Johnny mumbled something unintelligible, and curled up on his side.

Mike looked at him for a long minute, wrestling with his conscience. For the first time in their entire relationship, Mike decided to break a promise—he didn't wake Johnny up. Instead, he lay down next to him, his chest to Johnny's back. He pulled a sheet up over the two of them, and curled himself around Johnny's body, throwing a leaden arm around him. Stirring slightly, Johnny pulled Mike's arm in tightly, and mumbled again. Mike smiled, closed his eyes, and was asleep in five seconds.

**TBC**


	33. Questions and Answers

A/N: Thanks to Bamboozlepig for help with cop stuff.

**Chapter 33: Questions and Answers**

THOMAS DEVITO: This is Detective Thomas DeVito conducting interview number one with subject William Staib. It is 2210 hours on Friday, May 16, 1980. Present in the room are the subject, myself, and Deputy Eric Price. Mr. Staib, I am going to read you your rights again. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney_,_ one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand each of these rights as they have been read to you?"

WILLIAM STAIB: Yes, I do.

TD: Do you wish to have an attorney present?

WS: No, I do not.

TD: You may change your mind, and request an attorney at any point in these proceedings.

WS: I doubt that will happen, but fine. I'll let you know.

TD: Mr. Staib, are you acquainted with John Gage, either personally or professionally?

WS: Personally? No. Professionally? No.

TD: Do you know who he is?

WS: I sure do.

TD: (sigh) What is the nature of your acquaintance with Mr. Gage?

WS: We both work at the fire department.

TD: But you don't actually know him?

WS: No. But I know enough about him, let's put it that way.

TD: What do you know about him?

WS: I know he's a queer, a fag, a homo. Him and his boyfriend? Both in the fire department. Makes me sick. There's plenty of real men around, but they take a guy like that, and make him a captain—unbelievable.

TD: Who is the other individual you're referring to?

WS: Who, the boyfriend? Mike Stoker. He's a queer _and_ a gimp. L.A. County's finest, right? (laughs)

TD: Have you ever had any personal interactions with Mr. Gage?

WS: (laughs.) Oh, yeah. Not as good as I was really hoping for, but I got my point across.

TD: Please describe your interactions with Mr. Gage.

WS: Well, let's see. First, I think, was the letter. No—I'm wrong. Does it count as an interaction if you slash someone's tires?

TD: Did you slash Mr. Gage's tires?

WS: It was the least I could do.

TD: (inaudible) Is that a 'yes' or a 'no?'

WS: That's a 'yes.'

TD: Do you know anything about a letter that was sent to the Stoker/Gage residence?

WS: You've got it, don't you? Why do I need to tell you about it?

TD: (sighs.) Did you send Mr. Gage and Mr. Stoker a letter?

WS: I did. I just wanted to make sure he knew where I was coming from, with all my other, as you put it, 'interactions.'

TD: What did the letter say?

WS: That the fire department is for real men, and that he better watch his back. Him and his boyfriend, both.

TD: Did you intend that letter as a threat?

WS: Of course. But he needed to know, you see, why all the lessons were happening.

TD: Lessons?

WS: I've had to teach him a lesson or two over the last couple of weeks.

TD: What kinds of 'lessons?'

WS: Well, there were the tires, of course. Oh—do you want me to tell you about the lessons I did with the boyfriend, as well?

TD: Who are you referring to?

WS: The boyfriend? Mike Stoker. I told you already. He's another one. (pause of 3 seconds) You know, you're looking confused. Lemme start at the beginning. (two second pause.) See, it really messes a girl up, especially if she's already a little messed up, when she finds out a guy who dumped her is screwing another guy.

TD: What girl are you referring to?

WS: My sister. Half sister, really. Lynn Nolan. Don't you know all this already?

TD: I want to hear it from you, Mr. Staib.

WS: All right. (sighs) You see, this Gage character was dating Lynn. He dumped her. Not that I can blame him—she was already getting pretty weird at that point. But then, a year later—maybe a little more? She finds out he's shacked up with a guy. You see?

TD: And this was upsetting to her.

WS: Well, it must've been, because it wasn't too long after she found out about that that she got carted off to the looney bin. So it must've been.

TD: What did she say to make you think she was upset?

WS: She was still working at the hospital, you see, and she told me she found out from another girl at the hospital that Gage's boyfriend was a patient, and that Gage was there with him all the time. And a couple days later? That's when the thing with the bridge happened, and she got put in the nuthouse.

TD: 'Thing with the bridge?'

WS: As in, she tried to jump off it.

TD: Did Miss Nolan state that her suicidal behavior had anything to do with Mr. Gage?

WS: No, but it must've, right? Because it was right after she heard about him shacking up with this guy.

TD: Did she state that it was what she learned about Mr. Gage that drove her to attempting suicide?

WS: No.

TD: Let's get back to your 'interactions' with Mr. Gage and Mr. Stoker. Did you send them a threatening letter?

WS: Of course I did.

TD: Did you leave messages on their answering machine?

WS: Had to be clear, you know. (unintelligible) is a 'yes.'

TD: I'd like to ask you about an assault that occurred on Mr. Gage in an alleyway behind the pizza shop at 5524 West France Street on Tuesday, May 13th, at approximately six twenty five p.m. Can you tell me anything about that?

WS: Sure I can. I wasn't able to take care of him quite as thoroughly as I'd intended, but yes, I can take credit for that one, too. I did my best, but I only got in a few kicks before that guy called the cops on us. From the looks of him, he's probably one too. Oh, and just in case you didn't know this, my helper was James Torrelli.

TD: Did he participate in the assault as well?

WS: Wow, I really have to spell things out for you, don't I? You know, actually, I'm getting kind of tired of this. I think I'll take that lawyer now.

TD: You're asking for an attorney now?

WS: That's a 'yes.'

TD: Let the record show that the subject has requested an attorney. This interview is adjourned at 2219 hours on Friday, May 16th, 1980, until an attorney can be present.

~!~!~!~!~

Johnny woke around five, probably because "Dr. Jenny" had insisted he retire just after nine the night before. She'd been right—he was exhausted, and had this feeling that he had whenever he returned from even a short hospital stay, like everything around him wasn't quite real. And that feeling never went away until he'd had a good night's sleep at home after being discharged.

At home, or wherever "home" happened to be that night.

He was a little confused when he woke—the room was all wrong, and the warm body he was accustomed to waking next to was on the wrong side of the bed. He rolled over, and was reminded of his cracked ribs by a stabbing pain on his left side.

To add to Johnny's disorientation, Mike had promised that he'd wake Johnny when he returned home, but Johnny couldn't recall that having happened. It was so unlike Mike to not do something he'd said he would that for a moment Johnny was concerned. But, he was here, and looked fine, so he'd probably just forgotten. Or, worse, perhaps it had been so late when Mike returned that it could better have been considered early morning, in which case perhaps Mike had been afraid that if he woke Johnny, he wouldn't get back to sleep.

No matter. Between Johnny's shift schedule and his unscheduled nights at Rampart, it had been many days—Johnny wasn't even sure how many—since they'd woken up together. So he decided just to stay put for a while to see what would happen.

The first thing that happened was that Mike managed to get onto his back, and started snoring like a K-12 that had been started cold. Not wanting the entire DeSoto household to suffer, Johnny grabbed Mike's far arm, and pulled him over. It certainly wasn't easy, with three cracked ribs, but he managed, somehow. Happily, the arm Johnny had pulled over himself decided to clutch him tightly, reaffirming Johnny's decision to stay right where he was.

The next thing that happened was that Johnny fell asleep again. The next time he opened his eyes, he and Mike were in exactly the same position they'd been in before, but the clock on the nightstand read 8:10—an absurdly late hour for two people who were usually up before six. Johnny tried to recall if he remembered Mike ever still being asleep at this hour, and couldn't come up with a single sure instance. Seven, or even seven thirty, but eight was unheard of.

He lay there for a few more minutes, taking inventory. The ribs—yep, they were still pretty sore, and it was way past time to get some more Tylenol on board. That could wait, though. But there was really nothing he could do in his current position about his uncomfortably full bladder, which _certainly_ wouldn't go away on its own. So Johnny sighed, and started to sit up so he could take care of his problems.

He wormed his way out from Mike's clutches, and braced his ribs as he sat up. Before he got completely out of the bed, he inspected his bedmate. Mike was in deep sleep, deep enough that he didn't even stir when Johnny brushed the hair off his forehead and planted an experimental kiss there, and another on his cheek. Johnny gave up for the moment, threw his favorite shabby robe on over his boxers, and went out into the hall, hoping to god there was nobody in the bathroom ahead of him.

There wasn't—and the aroma of bacon and pancakes wafting up the stairs likely had something to do with that. Johnny took care of his bathroom needs, and washed up a bit. The downstairs was enticing, but not as enticing by himself, so he went back to the spare room.

He knelt down next to the bed, and put his face right up next to Mike's, foreheads touching. "Hey, Mikey," he said quietly, near, but not right into, Mike's upward facing ear. Nothing. "Huh."

Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed Mike's back—that usually did the trick. Sure enough, Mike stirred, and opened his eyes.

"Hey, sleepyhead!" Johnny said in a normal tone of voice.

Mike groaned. "Hey," he managed.

"You really awake?"

"No." Mike closed his eyes again, but then suddenly opened them with a snap, and shot bolt upright in the bed.

"Johnny!" he exclaimed.

"Uh, yeah? That's me," Johnny said, the corners of his lips turning upwards of their own volition.

"They got him! They got the guy! Or at least _a_ guy," Mike said excitedly.

"What? You mean, the guy who did all that shit?" Johnny asked eloquently.

"Yes! Two guys, actually—I couldn't get the details out of the cops, but I'm sure it was him!"

Johnny looked concerned. "How do you know it was him?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well, his voice was exactly right, for one thing. And then, once I was down on the ground—"

Johnny interrupted, waving his hands back and forth in front of himself. "Whoa, wait, wait! Whaddaya mean, 'once you were on the ground?'"

"Oh. Uh, he kinda slashed my tires, and set a tripwire between my truck and the pay phone, so—boom. I mean, I was pretty sure as soon as I hit the ground that I was in trouble, 'cause I figured he'd be right there, and he was. But once I was down, he repeated something he'd said on the phone earlier, and then I knew for sure it was him."

"Are you okay? He didn't hurt you, did he? 'Cause I'll kill him, Mikey; I swear I'll—"

"No, no! I whacked him real hard with my cane, and then Wes tackled him and I called the cops. But Johnny, it was definitely him! So that's it! Everything's over! Well, except fixing the house, and my truck, and your ribs, and …" Mike rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "Okay. So maybe everything's _not_ over. But at least they got the guy."

"Wow. Who was he?"

"All I got was a name—William Staib. I'd never seen him before in my life, but I heard on the deputy's radio that the detective looking into our cases had just gotten a warrant for his arrest in your assault, so it's gotta be him!"

"This is so weird. I mean, who _is _this guy?" Johnny asked.

"Honestly, you know as much as I do, now. They took him and me and Wes down to the police station, and put me in a room, and one of the deputies asked me a thousand questions—and that was like something out of a movie, let me tell you. And around midnight, they let me go. Not Wes, for some reason, because he obviously had nothing to do with any of this. But maybe because he actually tackled the guy." Mike threw his hands up. "I don't know. But in any case, they've got him."

Johnny perched at the edge of the bed. "So what now?"

"I don't have a clue. I've watched as much _Adam-12_ as the next guy, but in real life? I have no idea what happens next. Last night they wouldn't answer any of my questions—not one. But to be honest, I didn't really care at the time. Maybe if I call today, someone will talk to me." Mike paused, sniffed the air, and sent the conversation on a giant leap sideways. "Do you smell pancakes?"

"And bacon," Johnny agreed. "And coffee—man, that's gonna be great. But hang on a second—there were two guys."

"Well, I also heard on the deputy's radio that they had another suspect in custody, and that he'd named Staib. And that someone else named Staib as a 'person of interest' as well. And I'll bet—I'll just bet," Mike continued, "that the other guy they have is that James Torrelli guy—you know, the owner of the car Mrs. Daniels got the plate number off of?"

Johnny shook his head. "This is just really weird. I can't imagine what connection we have to either of these guys."

"Here's what I think," Mike said. "One of the things they asked me last night was whether I knew anyone named Lynn Nolan. I said I didn't know her, but I repeated what you'd said."

"Shit," said Johnny. "So it could actually have something to do with her? How the hell did they even find her, and even if this Staib character _is_ her brother or whatever, how did they know what his name was, and—" Johnny shook his head. "Maybe this will all make sense after breakfast. C'mon, let's go get some coffee."

Mike shook his head. "I'm not allowed."

"You're not _allowed_? I thought you said he didn't hurt you! What happened?"

Mike sheepishly described the truth of his encounter with Dr. Early, and equally sheepishly admitted the total quantity of coffee he'd consumed between 5:30 the previous morning and midnight last night. "So none for me," he said, "but let's go be really annoying houseguests and eat all their pancakes. Hell, they know you're here, so I'll bet they made a ton."

"In a minute. Lemme just look at you a minute—you sure you're all right?" Johnny checked Mike up and down, almost as if he were doing an initial patient assessment.

"You wanna get my vitals while you're at it?" Mike said dryly. "Really. I'm fine. Well, there's the caffeine OD, and the infection, but other than that—right as rain."

"Yeah, well you're still gonna hafta wait another minute or two for your pancakes, because—c'mere, Stoker. Don't make me twist my ribs."

"Aaw, c'mon, Gage. I've got morning breath like you wouldn't believe, and—mmf. Mmm," he concluded, and didn't try to talk for a minute or two.

"Missed you a lot, last night, and the night before, and the night before, and the night before that," Johnny said breathlessly, after letting go.

"Me too, babe." Mike leaned in and kissed Johnny once more, quickly this time. "All right—I gotta get in the shower before I can show myself downstairs, but you go ahead down. I'll just be a minute."

"Okay—I won't say anything about, well, anything, till you're there, since we're not really sure what it all means, or anything."

Mike shook his head at Johnny. "You _definitely_ need some coffee. That sentence didn't have a single noun in it!"

Johnny grinned and swatted Mike's rear as Mike exited the room for the bathroom. Johnny didn't mind going downstairs with bed-head and robe—he'd spent so many nights at the DeSotos' place that he was like one of the family, and many, if not most, of those nights had been when Johnny was not at his best. But Mike felt less comfortable, plus he'd had a horrible day yesterday and probably wanted to wash it away.

Johnny went carefully down the stairs, and rounded the corner to the dining room. Joanne, Jenny, and Roy were at the table, and Chris was in the kitchen cooking more bacon.

"Mornin', everyone!" Johnny said cheerfully. "Wow—this looks great!"

"Uncle Johnny, did you notice you can open your eye now? It's not so puffy!" said Jenny.

Johnny experimentally screwed up his face to close his good eye, and realized that he could in fact see slightly out of the blackened one. "Well, awright!" he said.

"Where's Mike?" Roy asked. "I know he said he'd be working late last night, but wow—I was up till eleven thirty, and there was no sign of him."

"Well, I dunno what time he got in for sure, but let's just say yeah, it was real late. He's grabbin' a shower, so he oughta show up lookin' all neat and clean-cut in about five minutes. Oh—and he can't have coffee—I could make him some tea, though," said Johnny. "Yeah, I'll do that."

"Hold it, Uncle Johnny. Total rest, remember. I can make the tea," Jenny said.

"Attagirl, Jen," Joanne said. "You tell him."

Johnny bowed to forces greater than his own ego, and sat down at the table.

"Can't have coffee?" Roy asked. "Hmm, would this have anything to do with how manic he sounded yesterday? Maybe hit the coffee pot a few too many times, huh?"

"Pretty much," Johnny said. "Man, I felt awful for him yesterday. I mean, we've all been there, with a brush fire, or when you get to overhaul on a big structure fire or something, where you feel like you just can't take another step, but at least there you've got the adrenaline to keep you going. But working in an office and bein' that shot?" Johnny shuddered. "I can't even imagine."

Joanne laughed. "You know, most people would think _exactly_ the opposite of that, Johnny."

"Huh?"

"I mean, most people would say, yeah, a tough day in the office is one thing, but I don't know how those guys are still standing up after this brush fire, or that structure fire, or that MVA," Joanne said.

"Well, everybody's different, I guess."

"What've you guys got goin' on this weekend?" Johnny asked, after loading his plate with pancakes and bacon, and settling down at his spot at the table.

"Uh, well, after breakfast we thought we'd head over to your place and see what needs doing, remember? Oh, wait," Joanne recalled, "you were still at Rampart when we talked to Mike about that. You two don't need to come—I mean, you can just stay here, but we're all headed over in about an hour."

"And my job is to make sure you don't do anything if you come with us," Jenny said, setting a steaming mug at Mike's place at the table.

"Wow." Johnny sat back, stunned. "Wow," he repeated. "Thanks a lot. That's really … thanks."

The stairs squeaked, signaling Mike was on his way down. "G'morning everyone," he said. He stopped behind Johnny, resting his hands on Johnny's shoulders.

"Hey!" Johnny said. "You smell a lot better."

"Well, next time you spend three hours at the police station, I'll give you a sniff and tell you how you smell, how 'bout that?" Mike said, grinning broadly to remove any possible sting from his words.

"Police station?" said all the DeSotos at once.

"Mike, what happened?" Joanne asked.

"Uh, well, among other things, they picked up a couple of guys who might be involved in all that … stuff," Mike said. "We're trying not to get too wound up about it, since their names mean nothing to us, but I'm pretty sure at least one of the guys is a good catch. I think maybe we should, um, discuss some of it later," Mike continued, looking at Roy and Joanne.

"Yeah, yeah," said Chris. "We get it, right Jen?"

"No problem," Jenny waved the adults off. "Just tell us when to scram, and we'll scram. But no fair banishing us till after breakfast."

"I do have one problem," said Mike. "No car. Among other things, the truck's tires got slashed. And, we left Johnny's car by the pizza place four days ago—I thought I'd just get a ride to pick it up the next day, ha ha, right?—so we're at your mercy."

"How about this," said Joanne. "I'll take Chris and Jenny and Johnny over to the house, and we'll get started looking around, and Roy, you can take Mike to get his truck towed or whatever it needs."

"That okay with you, Mike?" Roy asked.

"Okay? It's great. You guys are just saving our as—um, behinds. And," Mike sighed, "I wish I'd bought stock in Goodyear. Oh, well. So yeah, stopping by HQ and dealing with the truck would be great. And then maybe instead of going straight to the house, we can stop by where we left the Rover and gee, maybe it'll still even _be_ there."

"Good, that's settled then," said Joanne. "If we leave by ten, that'll give us plenty of time to get there to meet Hank."

"Captain Stanley?" Mike asked. "Wow—that'll be two thirds of our old crew, right there!"

The phone rang. "I'll get it," said Roy, heading to the living room extension.

"Hello?"

"_Roy? This is Joe Early. I'm sorry to bother you, but I know Johnny and Mike are staying with you, and I wanted to speak with Mike for a second if he's available_."

"Sure, Doc—he'll be right there. How've you been?"

"_I've been quite well. And yourself?_"

"Can't complain, Dr. Early. Kids are healthy and growing up fast, and being a Captain isn't as stressful as I'd thought it might be."

"_That's good, Roy. And—before you get Mike—I just want to thank you for helping those two out. I was really quite concerned about them both, but I know they're in good hands_."

"It's our pleasure, Doc. Lemme get Mike for you."

Roy set the receiver down on the coffee table, and returned to the dining room.

"Mike? Dr. Early for you."

Mike frowned. "Oh. Thanks. Uh, could I maybe take it upstairs?" he asked.

"Sure—phone's in our room," said Roy. "Help yourself."

"Thanks."

Mike felt awkward walking into Roy and Joanne's room, but less awkward than he would've answering the questions he imagined Dr. Early might have within earshot of the entire DeSoto family. He could hear footsteps behind him, and Johnny came into the room with him, closing the door behind them. That, he didn't mind one bit.

Mike sat down on the bed. He picked up the phone with one hand, and squeezed Johnny's hand with the other. "Hi, Dr. Early, it's Mike."

"_Mike! I was just calling to check up on how you're feeling today," _said Dr. Early. _"I was really quite concerned yesterday._"

"Thanks, Doc. I'm doing a whole lot better. Yesterday—well, it wasn't pretty, but I made it through. And I'm taking your advice—no coffee today or tomorrow. In fact, after yesterday, I'm considering kicking it completely. It wakes me up, for sure, but I'm not so sure it does good things for how my brain works."

"_And your fever? Is it down_?"

"Um, to tell the truth, Doc, I haven't even had a chance to check. But I'm guessing it is—I don't feel ill; not like I did yesterday."

"_Were you able to sleep last night_?"

Mike laughed. "Well, I was so wired when I got back here—after midnight, I might add—that I did end up taking one of your magic pills, and I got right to sleep, and I didn't wake up until after eight. Which I can't remember the last time I did. So now I feel sort of hung over, and I'm pretty sure I'm still working out some of the caffeine, but I'm a lot better."

"_Good. Well, be sure not to forget your antibiotics this time, all right? And I'd like you to see someone again about that infection, on Monday, if you can. I checked the call schedule, and Dr. Hansen—the one who took out the screw—is on for Monday. He may want to take an x-ray, just to compare with the one from last weekend, to make sure there's no infection in the bone itself._"

"All right—I'll call the hospital today to set that up. And Doc? I really can't thank you enough. Honestly, I think you maybe saved my life yesterday."

"_Well, I wouldn't go that far!_" Early chuckled. "_But it's my pleasure, Mike_."

"Seriously, Doc. See, what happened was, the guy tried to take me down in the parking lot last night, after I finally got out of the office. And he was crazy, and mean, and he was serious. And if I'd still been completely unhinged, the way I was earlier that day, before I talked to you? Well—I don't think I would've come out of it okay, to say the least. So thanks."

"_My goodness_," said Dr. Early. "_Has there been any progress by the sheriffs?_"

"Yeah." Mike explained the apprehension of the two men. "So if they're it, then maybe this is all behind us."

"_Well, keep us posted_," Dr. Early said. "_And is Johnny well_?"

"Yeah, Doc—he's a lot better. I'd hardly seen him till this morning, but yeah. He's good. Thanks."

They said their farewells, and Mike replaced the phone.

"Whew," said Johnny. "Good thing you took that upstairs."

"Yeah—I was thinking in the shower that I oughta call him, but I didn't figure his number was listed. I guess Roy's in the phone book, huh?"

"Joanne is, actually. Roy was for a long time, but all it takes is one inappropriate call from someone you've taken care of, and that's that."

"I guess so," said Mike. "Not a problem that engineers tend to have, I suppose."

"Probably not. But listen—I don't wanna push, or anything, but this whole unhinged thing—can we talk about it some more, some other time?"

Mike looked at the floor. "Yeah. Some other time. It was pretty, um, ugly. I got really freaky with Dr. Early, like I told you earlier, but I also got weird with Wes Harris—like _really_ weird. I was kind of worried maybe I was cracking up—hell, I think I _was_ cracking up—but today, I think I'm okay. But I'm going to keep an eye on me, because it was pretty scary, actually, coming unglued like that. But I think—right now, I just don't want to think about it."

"Some other time," Johnny reiterated, "we can talk about it more."

"Okay. And if we weren't in someone else's bedroom, I'd smooch you up real good right now, but we are, so I won't."

"We can do that some other time, too," Johnny reminded him. "But for now, let's go massacre some DeSoto pancakes." He got up from his seat on the edge of the bed, hesitated for a moment, and continued. "I love you lot, Stoker."

Mike's heart leapt at this uncharacteristically spontaneous admission. "Me too, Gage. I love you right back."

They went back downstairs together, feeling like maybe, just maybe, they were ready to face the day.

~!~!~!~!~

After the pancakes were completely demolished, Mike and Chris washed the breakfast dishes, as Jenny ushered Johnny to the recliner in the living room. "I'll let you take a shower, eventually, but there's no hot water upstairs when they're washing dishes anyhow, so you'll just have to rest for a little while," Jenny said firmly, following him into the living room. "So for now, name your card game, or I can get you the paper, or we could even watch Saturday morning cartoons if you want, even though we're both too old for that, really. At least, _I_ am," she said, frowning at him as his expression brightened at that last suggestion.

"Okay, Doc," Johnny said. "See? Here's me, sitting in the recliner." He'd long ago figured out the DeSotos' trick of having Jenny be his keeper when he was at their house recovering from the injury of the year. He had to admit—it was a good trick. It was easy to protest or wheedle to an adult, but not to a kid. And even when Jenny was a tyke of five or six years old, she was perfectly capable of understanding that sick and hurt people needed to rest and take their medicine, and was proficient in getting this typically uncooperative patient to follow her orders.

When she was little, Johnny enjoyed humoring her, so he played along. Johnny looked back to the last time he'd been a "patient" at the DeSotos'—over three years ago, when Jenny was not yet nine. She'd easily bamboozled him into following all her instructions, and to him it had been a pleasant, diverting game. Plus, he hadn't wanted to hurt her feelings by being uncooperative. But this time, he realized, she was taking on a serious role as a caregiver, and was clearly willing to sacrifice her own fun for his well-being. So, rather than "playing along," Johnny found himself cooperating because he knew she was right. Just as he knew the doctors and nurses at the hospital were right, and had always been right.

"What?" Jenny said, as Johnny looked at her seriously.

"Oh, just thinking about how everyone grows up."

Jenny rolled her eyes. "Oh, puh-leeeze."

Johnny laughed at her expression, which looked so much like Roy's did when Johnny was engaged in one of his rants. "I meant me, actually," he admitted.

Jenny squinted at him. "So, no cartoons, then?"

"I wouldn't go _that_ far," Johnny said. "Because it's nine o'clock, and that's Looney Tunes time, kiddo."

~!~!~!~!~

Half an hour later, Mike and Roy pulled into the deserted parking lot of the headquarters of the L.A. County Fire Department. There were only a few cars in the lot, all parked near the entrance to the building. Mike's truck was just where he'd left it, in the same debilitated condition. In the daylight, Mike could clearly see the knife slashes on each of the tires. He was about to head to the payphone to call a towing company, but then stopped.

"You know," he said to Roy, "We _work_ for this place. Let's go inside the house, where it's air conditioned, and call from there, on their dime. I'm sure someone can let us in."

"Sounds reasonable," said Roy.

They headed for the front door, and Mike rang the bell that said "Press once for after-hours admittance." Under the sign, someone had scrawled "Press twice for electric shock."

A minute later, a figure strode up to the double doors. Mike couldn't see who it was, because the glaring outdoor sunlight made it impossible to see any detail inside, but shortly, the door opened.

"Stoker! What're you doing here on a Saturday?" asked Bert Saunders.

"Hi, Bert—I just gotta get into my office, to make a phone call," said Mike. "I also have a document at the typist's now that I oughta check up on. By the way—this is Captain Roy DeSoto, just so you know you're not letting in an ax-murderer or something. Roy, this is Bert Saunders; he was at my first station, way back when, and he works here now."

"Captain," Bert said politely, shaking Roy's hand. "Mike—I gotta tell you; I don't know if the ax-murderer thing is quite it, but I heard from the security guy who was here last night that there were cops all over the place last night—out in the parking lot, in here, down at the motor pool—I don't know what the hell is going on, but it was sure as shit something."

"Yeah, well, I can't claim to understand it all," Mike said, "but I think maybe they got the guy who did in my office door, and who made that other mess in my office. At least, I hope that's who they got," he amended.

"Seriously?" said Bert. "That can't be all, though—Jimmy—he's the night watchman—said that he heard one of the cops say something about an assault on fire department property?"

Mike squirmed uncomfortably. He really didn't want to talk about it, but Bert had helped out an awful lot, and seemed concerned. "Me again. The guy slashed my tires and then tried to take me down last night. Um, did take me down, actually, but didn't get a chance to do as much damage as I think he wanted to."

Bert gaped at him. "Man, I thought this thing was gonna go sour, but I had no idea. Who was the guy, anyhow?"

Mike cleared his throat. "Look—the cops grilled me like crazy last night, and I kinda got the impression I'm not supposed to say too much. And to be honest, the whole thing doesn't make a lotta sense to me right now, anyhow. But I'll tell you when I can."

"Geez," Bert said, shaking his head. "Well, glad to see you're all right. You need a hand with anything while you're here?"

"No," Mike said. "I'm just calling a tow-truck—looks like I'm in the market for four new tires. Do you know who's trustworthy and fast, who could get my truck on a flat-bed this morning?"

"Sure—in fact, I'm here all day, for some painting that needs to get done when this place isn't crawling with people—so if you want, you can leave your keys with me and I'll take care of it, so you don't hafta wait around. No sense in everybody standin' around all Saturday morning."

"Seriously?" Mike asked. "I mean, I don't want to make your job take longer today—I know you probably have better things to do on a Saturday."

"No problem!" Bert said. "I get two days off for coming in today, and honestly, half the time I'm here is gonna be waiting for primer to dry, so I don't mind at all."

"Once again," Mike said, "Bert Saunders saves the day. Let me just call them myself, and explain the situation," he said, working the truck's key off his key ring and handing it to Bert.

Bert wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Mike. "That's my pager—they should call that, and I'll call them right back. And that's the name of the place you should call—they do towing and repairs and everything. They'll fix you right up."

"I owe you big time," Mike said to Bert. "I have a lot of work to do to fix up the house after what this guy did, and Johnny just got out of the hospital, and," he said, slapping his forehead with his hand, "I'm not supposed to be talking about any of this so forget what I just said. But seriously—this whole week has been a nightmare, so people being nice to me? It's a huge thing."

"Okay, I won't ask," said Bert, his one remaining eyebrow raised. "But really—it's no problem. Like I said, I'm here all day anyhow."

Mike thanked Bert again, and they went their separate ways.

"He seems like a really good guy," Roy said, as they took the elevator to the sixth floor."

"You have no idea," Mike said fervently. "When I call the Pope to nominate my neighbor for sainthood, I think I'll add Bert's name to the list too."

Mike let himself and Roy into his office, and called the company Bert had recommended. He made sure to give Bert credit for the referral. The garage said they'd have a truck out within an hour.

"So yesterday," Mike said, noticing that Roy had seen the photos on his desk, "I decided to put these on the desk. I used to keep 'em in a drawer—don't tell Gage that, all right?—but I figured by this point, everyone knows anyhow, so what the hell."

"Hmm," Roy said. "Seems like there still might be people who'd think, I don't know, that you're flaunting it or something."

"I'm honestly not sure if I care, Roy. But," Mike sighed, "you're right. And I guess I do care. I don't know. I hated having to keep those pictures in a drawer, you know?"

Roy studied the room. "What if," he said thoughtfully, "you made an 'L' with the low bookcase on the wall, and put the desk over here, so it faces out into the room. That way, people would see the backs of the pictures, and, well, if they picked them up to look, that's quite different from walking in and seeing someone's family pictures that are pointed outwards."

"Huh," said Mike. "I like it! Then I could also be facing the door, so I might get startled less." He looked around the room again. "Yeah. I think I'll do that—first thing Monday. Thanks for the idea. C'mon, let's get down to the typing pool real quick, just so I can check up on my stuff, and then we can get outta here."

Roy and Mike reversed their journey, heading towards the typing pool's office suite on the first floor. They entered the suite, and Mike headed to the one occupied station.

"Uh, excuse me… " he said.

The woman at the typewriter nearly jumped out of her chair.

"Sorry," Mike said. "Sorry to startle you."

"Oh, that's all right," said the woman. She looked to be about fifty. Mike could see she was working on his own document. "What can I do for you?" she asked.

"Well, I'm Mike Stoker—I see you're working on my brief right now. I was coming in for something else, and just wanted to check that I'd left everything in order for you."

"Oh, yes, thank you very much. If it were a weekday, us ladies would be fighting over who got to type your things for you—you're always so thorough, and tidy, and we never have any trouble reading your handwriting. Really—it's a pleasant way to spend my Saturday."

"Oh," said Mike. "Well. Thanks for taking care of it all. Let me give you another number where you can reach me today in case there is something that comes up, because I was here really late working on this last night, so I'll be surprised if there isn't something that's impossible to read."

"I doubt it," said the woman, "but here—write the number right there, just in case." She slid the request form across the desk to him, and Mike added his home number to the form.

"Thank you," said the woman, taking the form back. "I doubt I'll have to call, but thanks for stopping by. Really—it's a pleasure typing your work. You wouldn't believe the state of some of the things we're given, and then they get annoyed when we call to ask questions!"

"I believe it," said Mike. "Well, thanks again. Have a good day."

"You too, Mr. Stoker." And with that, she went back to her work.

Mike retrieved Roy from the waiting area. "Everything's too easy today," Mike said, frowning and shaking his head.

"What do you mean, easy?" Roy asked.

"I dunno, I guess it's just that if everything's been horrible and crazy, once things are back to normal, and people are nice, it seems unreal, somehow."

"I guess I can imagine that," said Roy. "Come on, let's get out of here. I feel all wrong, being in here in my civvies. Makes me nervous."

They went back to the parking lot, and hopped into Roy's convertible. The traffic was light, so it took them just over forty minutes to get to their next destination: the parking lot of the pizza place that used to be Mike and Johnny's favorite. Mike heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that the Rover was still in the lot. He'd thought for sure it would've been towed away, simply for sitting innocently in the lot for a couple of days. Mike waved to Roy, and then unlocked the Rover and pulled himself in. He sat in the front seat for a second, frowning and thinking. "It's worth a shot," he said to himself. "Why not." He got out again, and headed around the corner—not through the alley, the sight of which made him shudder—to the convenience store.

The sleigh bells on the front door jingled as he walked in, and the young African-American man at the cash register looked up.

Mike recognized the fellow as the clerk who was often there when he picked up the odd beers he favored. "Uh, you wouldn't by any chance be Robert, would you?" Mike asked.

"I would," said Robert, grinning. "And you wouldn't by any chance be the boyfr—uh, sorry, the friend of that John Gage dude, would you? He's Budweiser, and you're Guinness, right?"

"Guinness," Mike agreed. "But actually, Mike Stoker. And—the other thing? You had it right the first time."

"Uh huh," said Robert. "He okay?"

"He's gonna be fine," Mike said, "thanks to you. He spent a couple nights in the hospital, but he's home now."

"See, I knew he shoulda gone straight in, but he wouldn't have none of that," said Robert. "I _told_ him so, but nuh-uh. I'll bet he's plenty stubborn, ain't he?"

"He is, and thanks to you, he'll live to be plenty stubborn for a lot longer. I can't thank you enough for what you did."

"Well, soon as I saw them guys in the alley, I called the cops," said Robert. "I just wish I coulda stopped them before, you know."

"You did great," said Mike. "Those were some seriously bad guys, and I'm pretty sure they wouldn't've stopped where they did if you hadn't come out."

"I'm pretty sure you're right," said Robert. "The cops who talked to me later thought so too."

"I'll be back in a second," said Mike. "Just gonna get some supplies." He grabbed a cart, and loaded it up with sodas for the kids, several sixes of different beers, and a variety of lunch supplies. He headed back to the counter, and Robert rang him up.

"Thanks," said Mike. "Really. Thanks a million. From Johnny, too."

"You're welcome," said Robert. "And you tell him I said 'I told you so,'" Robert added.

"You bet I will," Mike laughed. "See you 'round."

~!~!~!~!~

Mike pulled the Rover into the driveway, and got out and stared in dismay at the front of his house, which he hadn't seen since the latest vandalism. "What a fucking mess," he said.

Two four-by-eight sheets of plywood were nailed up over the front window—not neatly, but effectively. The front door, and most of the brick front of the house, were covered in splashes of hot pink paint. It looked like a giant had swallowed several gallons of Pepto Bismol and then vomited all over the house.

Mike sighed, and reached into the Rover to pull out the bags of groceries. He left his cane on the front seat, not being able to manage it and the bags at the same time. The front door swung open just as he got to it, and he gratefully entered the blessedly cool house.

"Here, lemme take that," said Chris, who had opened the door.

"Thanks," said Mike. He bypassed the living room, which he was dreading looking at, and went straight to the kitchen and dining room area.

"Hi, guys," he said to Johnny and Jen, who were at the dining room table playing gin rummy. "I see you're both doing your assigned jobs," he added.

"Yeah, and I'm getting my butt kicked," Johnny added.

"Good news," Mike said. "I got the Rover—it's in the driveway."

"Thanks heavens for small favors," said Johnny.

"Gin," said Jenny, laying her cards out on the table.

"Damn," said Johnny, scowling. "Er, I mean, darn. That's the third time in a row."

"It's okay—it's not like I don't hear swear words on the school bus every single day," Jenny said, "which Dad pretends he doesn't believe. Plus, I'm _pretty_ sure you're letting me win."

"Not a chance," said Johnny, shaking his head. "Because I know you'd catch me. I've just had shi—uh, crummy cards, is all. I'll get you next time—you'll see."

Mike finished putting the groceries away, and then looked closely at Johnny. "You doing okay, babe?" he asked.

"Yeah—" Johnny noticed both Jenny and Mike looking sternly at him. "Uh, I guess I'm kind of achy," he admitted.

"Thought so," said Jenny. "You're all tipped over to one side, you know."

"Just trying to get these ribs more comfortable," Johnny said. "I can't seem to find a way to sit that doesn't bug 'em today."

"Then you oughta go lie down," Jenny said. "Right, Uncle Mike?"

"Hm," Mike said neutrally, not wanting to push it.

Johnny laughed, and clutched his ribs. "All right, all right—I'm gonna go lie down, okay? Maybe grab a fast nap before lunch, since it's only eleven or so, right?"

Jenny nodded in satisfaction. "That's a good idea," she said. "And maybe you need some more medicine, too."

"So Jenny, maybe I'll tuck him in, all right?" said Mike. "And I'll make him take something."

"Good," said Jenny. "He said he had two extra-strength Tylenol at eight o'clock, so it's too soon for more of that, right? I'll check. Dad?" she hollered, causing both Johnny and Mike to wince.

Roy rounded the corner from the living room, dust pan in hand. "What's up?"

"How long between Tylenols?" Jenny asked.

"At least four hours, even for him," Roy said, pointing at Johnny. "Mike, you got anything else around? No aspirin," he cautioned.

"Yeah, we got plenty. Between me and Gage, I think we can sort out what's what, right?" said Mike, noticing Johnny was starting to look irked at being talked over like he wasn't there.

"I'm pretty sure we can handle it," said Johnny. "C'mon, Stoker; you tucking me in, or what?" Johnny asked, as he stood up.

Roy shook his head, grinning.

"What?" Mike asked, defensively.

"Just thought you guys would be on a first-name basis by now, is all."

Johnny stuck his tongue out at Roy, causing Jenny to giggle.

"It's just a thing we do," Mike said, blushing. He followed Johnny down the hallway, stopping at the bathroom to grab some assorted painkillers from their home pharmacy. He filled a mug with water, and crossed the hallway to the bedroom, where he found Johnny already stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Whatcha got?" Johnny asked, looking at the bottles Mike was holding. "Tylenol 3, nope; Vicodin, nope—that has Tylenol in it; Percodan, nope—that's got aspirin; geez, why do they have to mix all this stuff up? Aha! Hydrocodone, all by itself. It's old, but this stuff doesn't go bad." He read the label. "One to two tablets, every four to six hours, blah blah blah," he said. He looked up at Mike. "Whaddaya think—three?"

"No!" Mike said, alarmed.

Johnny smiled. "Yankin' your chain, Stoker. I'm just taking one, all right?"

"Oh. Okay." Mike handed Johnny the mug of water, and Johnny washed down a single tablet. Mike returned the mug and their painkiller pharmacopeia to the bathroom, and went back to the bedroom, shutting the door on his way in.

Johnny had already flung the bedspread back, and was lying on his side under the sheet. Mike got in next to him—just for a minute, he promised himself—and spooned himself up against Johnny's back.

"Mmm," Johnny said, as Mike nuzzled the back of his neck. "You takin' a nap, too?"

"Nope. Just a break."

"'Kay," Johnny said sleepily. "Can you wake me up in like an hour?"

"I can _try_," Mike said.

"Har de har." Johnny yawned, and grumbled as that reflex caused a sharp twinge in his ribs. He adjusted his position, leaning up against Mike a little more. "Any way you can get any closer, there?"

Mike snuggled himself in closer. He reached his top arm over and gently around Johnny, being sure to avoid the area of the cracked ribs. He slipped his hand under Johnny's shirt and let it rest on his upper abdomen, relishing the warmth of his skin and the feeling of his breathing, which soon became deep and regular. When Johnny rolled over, mumbled something, and pushed his pillow onto the floor, Mike knew he was out cold, and went back to the rest of the house to join in on the work.

**TBC**


	34. Repairs

A/N: If I have a favorite chapter in this saga, this is it. Thanks again to Bamboozlepig for making sure I have my facts straight about legal stuff.

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**Chapter 34: Repairs**

Mike closed the bedroom door quietly, and returned to the living room, where the DeSoto clan was cleaning up the broken glass and other damage caused by the brick thrown through the window. Glass had gotten everywhere—_everywhere._ For the first time, Mike was regretting the tile flooring throughout the house. In the L.A. heat, it was the perfect thing for staying cool, but anything glass that was dropped on it shattered and spread over the entire room. Of course, a knee-to-ceiling sized plate glass window created enough glass that there were shards spread far beyond the living room. Mike imagined that even with a good clean-up, they'd still be finding slivers and sparkles weeks from now.

Joanne had disposed of the few large pieces of glass before any of the other adults had arrived. Roy and Chris, both wearing heavy leather gloves, were working on sweeping shards into piles in the living room, while Joanne and Jenny had whisk brooms and dustpans and were moving piles into doubled paper grocery bags.

"Wow—you guys are efficient," Mike said, as he entered the living room.

"Teamwork," said Roy, "is key in a job like this, right kids? And speaking of teams—is the other half of the home team asleep?"

"Yep," confirmed Mike. "Even before the drugs could've kicked in."

"Well, that's what he does, isn't it." Roy said.

"What do you mean?" Mike asked.

"Huh," Roy said. "I keep forgetting that the whole time you guys have been together, Johnny hasn't once really gotten hurt. See," he explained, "we'd always make him come stay at our house for a couple of days whenever he'd been discharged from the hospital after one of his various catastrophes. And he'd seriously sleep about sixteen hours a day. I think that was his secret for how he recovered so fast."

"Oh," said Mike. He was trying not to feel miffed that Roy knew something about Johnny that he, Mike, didn't. But once he put it together that the reason why he didn't intimately know Johnny's injury recovery patterns was that he hadn't been injured since they'd been together, he was easily able to just let it go. "Good to know," he said.

For a moment, he felt sad that he hadn't been with Johnny for any of his previous 'catastrophes,' as Roy had so aptly put it. But Mike had had this conversation with himself many times over the last couple of years—what if they'd learned of each other's preferences earlier; what if they'd gotten together when they'd first met at Station 51; what if, what if, what if. But, the reality of it was, Mike had been involved with someone else for the entire time that he and Johnny had known each other. And Mike just plain wasn't the cheating type. So he decided to be grateful for the fact that the DeSotos had taken care of Johnny all those times.

After about forty-five minutes of careful sweeping, scooping, dumping, and then mopping it seemed that most of the glass had been removed from the floor of the living room. Mike looked at the clock—it was nearly noon.

"Looks like that glass is history. Thanks, everyone," said Mike "I'll start calling around to see if there are any glaziers that will come on a Saturday."

"Uh," Roy hesitated. "You may want to wait until Captain Stanley comes by to think about that."

"Oh?" Mike raised his eyebrows. "Why's that?"

"Um, I'm, uh, not supposed to say, actually. Just—take my word for it. You don't want a glazier to come today," Roy said.

"O … kay," Mike said, "but this is awfully mysterious."

"Trust me," Roy said. "I know you've been thrown some crummy surprises in the past couple of weeks, but this is a good surprise."

Jenny was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet with the strain of keeping the secret. "Really, Uncle Mike—it's gonna be great!"

Mike laughed. "Okay, I'll take your word for it, Jenny! Anyhow, Johnny said to wake him up around now, so I'll go do that, since I'm very mysteriously not allowed to do what I was going to do."

"Good plan," said Roy. "We might take a break in the yard or something. It's not so bad out today."

"Make yourselves at home," Mike said. He turned down the hallway and quietly entered the bedroom. Johnny was all the way over on Mike's side of the bed, curled around Mike's pillow. Mike toed his shoes off and got in on the wrong side, and spooned up against Johnny's back. Johnny immediately rolled himself over towards Mike, pulling the pillow along with him. Mike plucked the pillow out from between them, gently enough that he didn't risk jarring Johnny's cracked ribs, but quickly enough that Johnny opened his eyes to see what had happened.

"Hiya," Johnny muttered, eyes opening more fully. He stretched, and winced, and, noting Mike's expression, reassured him. "Just a twinge," he said. "Honest. And speaking of twinges, gotta take this tape off later. It's starting to curl up around the edges—won't be doin' a whole lotta good by tonight, is my guess. But I sure do hate peeling the stuff off."

Mike helped Johnny sit up, and Johnny accepted the assistance without protest. "Are you less sore than before you lay down?" Mike asked, sitting next to Johnny on the edge of the bed.

Johnny considered the question. "I guess," he said. "Kinda fuzzy, though."

"You okay to come out, or do you wanna stay in here?"

"Out, definitely—gotta get some grub, and plus, Cap's comin' over in a little while, right?"

"Yeah," said Mike. "And here's something weird—I was gonna call a glazier, to come and fix the window, but Roy said not to do it yet, but he wouldn't say why. Any ideas?"

Johnny shook his head. "Not a one," he said, standing up from the edge of the bed. As he did so, one of the bedside phones rang.

"Mine," said Mike, picking up the phone. "Hello?"

As he pulled on some pants, Johnny watched Mike's face go tense. Johnny sat down on the edge of the bed again, not wanting to leave until Mike was off the phone.

"Uh, Detective, can you hang on a second? I want Johnny to hear this too."

A pause, while the detective on the other end of the line replied.

"Okay," said Mike. He covered the receiver with his hand. "It's the detective who talked to our guys last night. You wanna get the extension, or you wanna take this one?"

"You mind getting the other extension?"

Mike handed the phone to Johnny, zipped down the hallway, and skidded back into the bedroom, having forgotten his shoes, which he would still want for going anywhere near the living room.

"_All right, I think we're all here,_" Johnny heard Mike say on the extension.

"_Okay—I'll start over, since Mr. Gage didn't hear the beginning. I'm Detective Tom DeVito, L.A. County Sheriff's Department, and although we haven't met, I've been working on your case. The upshot is, we've got two guys in custody. One of them—William Staib, who works in the motor pool at the fire department—has given a partial confession to some of the crimes one or the other of you were victim to. Mr. Gage, that includes the assault of a few days ago. The other one—James Torrelli—has indicated his own involvement in several misdemeanor charges, but denies any involvement in the felony charges, including the assault, which he claims was perpetrated solely by Mr. Staib, who in turn states that Mr. Torrelli was indeed involved_."

"Oh," said Johnny. "This is weird. I mean, we don't even _know_ these guys. And, uh, what I'm really wondering about is, um, is there, uh, is there gonna hafta be a trial, or anything like that?"

"_The arraignment will be on Monday,_" replied DeVito. "_Unless they plead guilty to all charges at that time, which is highly unlikely, the process will continue._"

"But you said the one guy already confessed," Johnny continued. "Wouldn't that mean he'd plead guilty?"

DeVito sighed. "_It's not always that simple. He _might_ plead guilty. Or he might go for a plea bargain, or he might just decide to plead not guilty and see what happens._"

"'Cause the thing is," Johnny said, "I pretty much just want this whole thing to be over and done with, all right? So what if, I don't know how this works—but what if I just didn't press charges for the whole assault thing, and we just kind of left that part out? I mean, get them for the rest of it, but kinda, I don't know …"

Mike, on the extension in the living room, couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Johnny, what those two did to you is by far the worst part of this whole thing! How can you even _think_ of just letting it go?"

Johnny held the phone to his ear with one hand as the other arm instinctively tried to brace his ribs. "But you don't understand! I don't care about that—I just want this all to be _done_."

DeVito interrupted. "_Mr. Gage, I'm sorry, but I need to get back to what I actually called for, which to let you know that I need to get another statement from you_."

"Aw, c'mon," Johnny protested. "I already talked to Houlihan, and you guys already got my medical records, right? How come we need to do this again?"

"_I know you already answered Deputy Houlihan's questions, but there are some new questions now that we're pretty sure we have the right guys. There are some things that they said that we need to follow up on with you. It has to happen before the arraignment, and the sooner, the better. Either you can __come out to my station, which isn't all that far from your place, or, since you did just get out of the hospital, I can come out to your place, if that would be easier._"

Johnny hesitated. "The thing is, I just took some pain meds. And they make me kinda stupid. And I don't think you want a stupid statement, right?"

"_Completely sober would be better, but I certainly understand the necessity for pain medication. Broken ribs hurt a lot._"

"How about this," suggested Mike, who was suddenly feeling extremely protective of Johnny. "What if you, or whoever it's gonna be, came out here in the early evening—six, seven, something like that. That'll give make the timing for different pain meds work out all right, don't you think, Johnny?"

"I don't even know," Johnny said crossly. "Whatever."

"_Early evening would be fine,_" said DeVito. "_Just give me a call at the same number you have for Deputy Price, about fifteen minutes beforehand, if that's not going to work. Is that all right with you, Mr. Gage?_"

"I guess. I just don't even wanna think about it any more," Johnny complained.

"So what's this arraignment thing all about?" asked Mike. "Can you explain that?"

"_Sure_," said DeVito. "_Now that the two men I told you about have been apprehended, they need to be charged with all the crimes listed in all your complaints._" DeVito rattled off a lengthy list of charges. "_The charges happen in the arraignment, which will happen on Monday. The judge will set bail, which will probably be pretty steep, since one of the charges is for a violent felony. They either make bail or they stay in jail until the trial. If either one is released on bail, there will be an order of protection that forbids them to come within a certain distance of either you or your home, and forbids them to contact you in any way. Someone will let you know the outcome of the arraignment on Monday. Do either of you have any questions about that?_"

"I guess not," said Mike. "Johnny?"

"I just want this all to be done," he repeated.

DeVito sighed. "_I understand that. But what you have to understand is that when a crime's been committed—particularly a violent crime, as in this case—it can't just disappear. I know that's unpleasant for the victims. But that's the way the law works, and for good reasons._"

Nobody said anything for a few seconds.

"All right, Detective," Mike said finally. "Thanks for letting us know about all of this. We appreciate everything you've done."

"Yeah," Johnny said, reluctantly but politely. "Thanks. Sorry I got mad, but … well."

"_Understandable, Mr. Gage. And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to finish up a few things around here_."

"Sure," said Mike. "See you this evening."

After everyone hung up, Mike returned to the bedroom. He found Johnny still sitting on the edge of the bed, hanging his head low and pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Mike sat down next to him and waited.

Johnny didn't move. He didn't say anything, and he didn't look at Mike. He didn't do anything at all for over a minute. Mike knew not to push him to talk, but couldn't just let him sit there like that. He reached out a broad, tanned hand, stroking it up Johnny's back and resting it on his neck.

For the first time that Mike could recall, he felt Johnny flinch under his touch. It was a subtle movement, but to Mike, it was as if he'd just touched a live electrical wire. He yanked his hand back, and folded his hands in his lap, heart pounding. His stomach suddenly felt like he'd drunk a quart of vinegar, with a pint of hot sauce as a chaser. He sat there, frozen on the edge of the bed, three inches from Johnny, but somehow miles away at the same time.

They sat like that for a long, long time.

Finally, Johnny sighed. He didn't look up, and didn't move. "I just don't think I could take it, Mike."

"Take what?" Mike asked guardedly.

"Sitting there in court, for everyone to see and hear, telling all." Johnny looked up, but not at Mike. "Anyone who wants can show up for a trial, you know. Anyone in the world can come see somebody's personal, private life become a matter of public record."

"So you'd rather let them get away with it? Maybe do it again, to us, or someone else? You'd rather end up in jail for contempt of court?"

"What I'd _rather_," Johnny said, voice raised, "is that this whole mess just go away! That's what I'd rather!"

Half of Mike wanted to flee—just run away. Most of the other half wanted to pull Johnny close, gently kiss away everything that was bothering him. But the tiny piece of Mike that was actually in control knew that either one of those choices would be wrong, wrong. He still had no idea what to say or do, though.

Johnny continued. "You know I like to keep my business to myself. And now—some of the dirtiest laundry I've got is about to be strung up the flagpole, for everyone to see."

If Mike had frozen before, he was now so cold and still he thought he might shatter into a million pieces at the slightest movement. "Is that what we are to you? Dirty laundry?" He couldn't keep the chill from entering his voice.

Now Johnny recoiled. "What? No! Why would you even _think_—"

"Why would I even _think_ that?" Mike interrupted. "You made it pretty clear, just now—I never thought you were, but you are. You're ashamed of us. You'd rather let these guys walk, maybe end up in jail yourself, than admit to the world that we're together. I didn't think you felt that way—I really didn't—but I've been wrong before, haven't I."

"Mike, that's not it!" It was Johnny's turn to feel the acid rising in his stomach. "That's not what I meant!" He turned to sit cross-legged on the bed next to Mike, ignoring the pain that movement caused in his ribs.

"Well, what _did_ you mean then?" Mike shouted. "Because that's sure what it sounded like to me!"

"Fuck," Johnny swore. "Another classic Gage screw-up. Unbelievable." He took a deep breath, and this time couldn't ignore the pain. He yanked a pillow off the head of the bed, and clutched it to his midsection to brace his ribs before he continued.

More than anything in the world, Mike wanted to take Johnny in his arms, but if he did that, and was pushed away, he knew he would fall apart completely.

"It's like this," Johnny continued after a few seconds. "Here's me—a big tough guy. Indestructible—hell, I'm a legend, right? I've been blown up, run over, knocked down. I've fallen off ladders, down cliffs. Been bit by a snake, made sick by a freakin' _monkey_. I've breathed down air bottles till they were so empty that I felt like the bottle was sucking air outta _me_ instead of the other way around. I've been pretty much buried alive. I've bailed out head first from windows of rooms that were flashing over more times than I care to remember. I can't even _count_ how many times I've ended up as an overnight guest at Rampart, and, well, treated and released? Those don't even make it into my conscious brain."

"But this time?" Johnny forced himself to look at Mike, and Mike forced himself not to look away. "This time, it was two guys in an alley. They only had me for a _minute_, Mike—_less_ than a minute—and I couldn't do a fucking thing about it. And if that guy from the store hadn't shown up, I guarantee you it would've been a _lot_ worse than it was. So yeah, Mike—I'm ashamed. Of myself," he finished, turning away again. "For letting something like that happen. For being so … weak. Not ashamed of you, not of us. Never that," he concluded in a whisper, holding Mike's pillow against himself tightly.

This time, Mike couldn't stop himself, and he didn't care. Mindful of Johnny's ribs, he gathered him up, pillow and all, and pulled him close. He kissed Johnny's face, his hair, his shoulders—anything he could reach without letting go. "I'm sorry," he whispered into Johnny's ear. "I'm so sorry. I was so caught up in everything, so freaked out, I didn't even stop to _think_ about how you'd be feeling. I got it all wrong—I'm sorry."

Johnny pulled the pillow out from between them, and unfolded his crossed legs to wrap them around Mike, who was now kneeling on the bed. Johnny seized Mike and pulled him down, smashing their lips together in a kiss whose blazing intensity was bright enough to wash out the physical pain screaming from his cracked ribs, as the rest of him, mind and body, shouted out, _this! This is what I needed!_

When Johnny pulled him down, long legs wrapped around Mike's waist, Mike instinctively let his weight fall onto his own arms, on either side of Johnny. But Johnny kept pulling him downwards, insistently. Not wanting Johnny to allow himself to be crushed, Mike rolled both of them so Johnny was lying on the side without cracked ribs, and Johnny stretched his legs out so they intertwined with Mike's.

Johnny let Mike's lips go free for just long enough to repeat what he'd said. "It was never that," at the same time as Mike said, once again, "I'm sorry." And they pulled towards each other again, this time with an embrace that was tender and affirming, as the chemicals of stress gradually disappeared from their systems.

"You were right before, about letting them get away with it. I won't let them win," Johnny said, finally. "No matter what it takes, Mike, they won't beat us."

Mike traced Johnny's eyebrows, his cheekbones, and his lips with a gentle fingertip. "You're right," he said. "They won't." He kissed Johnny once more, and helped him sit up.

Johnny tried and failed to bite back a yelp as he sat up. He'd definitely aggravated those ribs just now, but it had to be done. "I'll just hit the home pharmacy and the latrine real quick, and then let's go, I don't know, see if we scared off the DeSotos."

Mike laughed. "Everyone but Roy was outside while we were on the phone, and I'll bet he headed for the door the second there was a raised voice. You gettin' some more Tylenol?"

"Yeah. Can't imagine how I mighta stressed those ribs."

Johnny disappeared into the bathroom, and Mike went to the yard. Everyone was sitting on the deck, drinking sodas and taking a well-earned break.

"Sorry 'bout that," Mike said. "We really had to take that call. It was the detective on our case, and—it's all just getting to be … a little much."

"But they've got the guys, right?" Chris asked. "In jail?"

"They're in jail, yes," Mike nodded, opting to leave out the 'for now' that he knew the adults would understand.

"Mom, should I start to make some lunch for everyone?" Jenny asked. She was practically bouncing up and down with the effort of not spilling the beans about whatever the surprise was that Roy had alluded to.

"Sure, Jen—I think Mike brought in some supplies, so maybe if you laid everything out on the counter, we could do an every man, woman, and child for him or herself assembly line," said Joanne.

Everyone headed back into the cool of the house. Johnny was just easing himself down into the recliner as they came in. Jenny was in the kitchen getting lunch supplies out, when there was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it." Mike trotted to the door, and opened it to reveal Hank Stanley. "Hey, Cap! C'mon in!"

"Hi, Mike. I'll pop in to say hi to the gang, but I'm here to work, so I'll be headed right back out." Cap stopped in the foyer to take off his shoes, but Mike stopped him.

"Hold it—still might be some shards around," he said.

"Whoops—good point. Hey, there he is," Cap said as he rounded the corner into the living room and greeted Johnny, who was looking slightly bleary in the recliner. "How ya doin', pal?"

"Hey, Cap. Way better 'n last time we talked, that's for sure. Kinda tired, though," he admitted.

"Not surprising," Cap said, "considering you've only been home from the hospital for less than twenty four hours. That's quite an impressive shiner you've got there, by the way."

"Well," said Johnny, "I wish I could say 'you should see the other guys,' but they probably look just fine."

"Maybe," said Mike, "but they're looking just fine sitting in jail, though. And, come to think of it, nobody looks good in jail clothes. So keep that in mind."

"Yeah." Johnny changed the subject. "Thanks for coming, Cap. I'm sure we'll be able to put you to work somehow, even though the glass is all cleaned up."

"Oh, I don't think I'll run out of things to do," Cap said, with a wide grin on his face and a sparkling glint in his eyes. "Say, Johnny—can I borrow the keys to your Rover? We need to get the driveway cleared out. Roy, that means your car too. Looks like you guys are sitting down to lunch, so just toss me those keys and I'll move the vehicles."

Roy handed Cap his car keys, and Mike handed him the key to the Rover. Cap left the house again, and Mike just shook his head.

"This is really mysterious," he reiterated, watching Cap move the Rover, then Roy's convertible.

After the cars had been moved, Cap stood in the driveway near the garage, and started making backing signals to an as yet unseen vehicle.

"Okay, I gotta see what's going on out there," Mike said.

"Wait! Me, too," said Johnny, folding the recliner into a more upright position. He let Mike help him up, and squeezed Mike's hand one extra time before letting go to head outside.

Johnny and Mike stepped outside, where they could see Cap assisting the driver of a white box truck backing into the driveway. The truck was emblazoned with a logo of two cartoonish-looking chalkboard erasers, and the phrase '¡Los Borradores!' One of the cartoonish erasers was wearing a superhero cape, and flying across a path of graffiti on a brick wall, leaving a clean streak behind. Johnny and Mike looked at each other, and Mike shrugged. "Beats me," he said.

The back-up beeping ceased, and the truck's engine cut out. The driver, face obscured by the large side mirrors of the truck, opened the door and stepped down. Hank stood back, either doing something or pretending to do something at the back of the truck, and let the driver approach Mike and Johnny on his own.

"Marco," Mike said softly, as the driver approached. Johnny's eyes widened, as he realized Mike was right.

Marco approached them, hesitantly at first. He stopped on the walkway, about a yard away from them. His eyes were downcast, and his hands were behind his back.

Nobody said a word for a few seconds.

Then Marco spoke. "I heard some old friends of mine were in trouble. And I heard they might need a little help with some sandblasting. I can do that, if they'll let me."

Nobody was sure what to say for a couple of seconds, so Marco went on.

"Cap told me about what happened. And … I know he didn't mean it that way, but while he was telling me about everything that happened?" Marco shook his head, looking at the ground. "I felt like I was no better than the guys who did it."

Mike interrupted him, very quietly. "Marco, no. You're not like that. You would _never_ do any of those things—not to anyone, not for any reason. We know that, and we hope you know it too."

"No, I know I wouldn't. But I kind of felt like I … contributed to what they did."

Johnny spoke up for the first time. "But you didn't."

"No." Marco looked up again. "No, I didn't." He looked at Mike. "There was something you said, when you were still in the hospital after your accident. When I first learned you two were, uh, a couple," he said awkwardly. "You said I should try to remember you're both still the same people I've always known. And ..." Marco's eyes returned to the ground briefly, but rose again. "And I'm ashamed that _this_—that all those things that someone did to you both—is what it took for me to remember that. Because you're two of the finest people I've ever known."

They all looked at each other for a few seconds, trying to figure out what to say, what to do.

Finally, Mike broke the silence. "Marco, will you come into our house with us, and have some lunch?"

Johnny let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He crossed over to where Marco was standing, and clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon, man; I'm starving. How 'bout you?"

Marco's eyes looked maybe just a little bit darker and shinier than usual as he nodded. "Yeah. I'm starving too. Let's go eat."

Captain Stanley watched the proceedings surreptitiously from behind the truck. He couldn't hear what was being said, but he smiled in satisfaction as he saw Johnny put a hand on Marco's shoulder, and saw the three men walk into the house together.

"Okay, Chet—looks like we're gonna get to do our job," he said. Chet, who hadn't moved from the passenger seat of the van when they pulled into the driveway, sighed with relief and hopped down.

"Thank goodness, Cap. I think it woulda just about killed Marco if they'd turned him away."

"They wouldn't have, Chet," Captain Stanley said. "Not in a million years. C'mon—look at who we're talking about here."

"True. I guess I never heard of Gage ever holding a grudge, except against that professor or whatever he was who tried to study the reservation when he was a kid. And Stoker—well, he's put up with Gage for a looooong time now, so I think he must be a lot more resilient than he seems."

Hank shook his head. "You have a unique way of putting pretty much everything, Kelly. C'mon—let's go see the whole gang, all together in the same place."

Kelly and Stanley let themselves in the front door, and could instantly hardly hear themselves.

"Chet! When'd you get here?" Johnny asked from the recliner in the living room. The nine people in the house were spread out in the kitchen, dining room, and living room. Marco was sitting on the couch across from Johnny's recliner, and Roy and his family were in the dining room. Mike was assembling sandwiches for Johnny and Marco in the kitchen.

"Holy smokes! Mike—ya know what?" Johnny shouted from the living room.

"What, babe?" Mike asked, bringing Johnny a glass of iced tea and a sandwich, and handing another plated sandwich to Marco.

"It's all six of us! All in the same place! You know when the last time that was?"

Mike knew exactly when it was, but didn't feel like reminding people of the last A-shift party at his house, when most of the people in the room didn't know that he and Johnny were together, and had thought Mike was transferring to another station just because of the commute. "Probably right before I went up to 93s, right?"

"You guys should take a picture," said Jenny. "Uncle Johnny, where's your camera?"

"Nuh-uh," Johnny said, shaking his head. "No pictures till this shiner is totally gone."

"Vanity, thy name is John Gage," Chet jabbed.

Mike winced anticipatorily at where this conversation could go. Now that he really understood the full extent of the damage those two goons had done in such a short time, he wanted to protect Johnny from any discussion of the assault or its aftermath.

"Hell, I don't care about that," Johnny said, waving a hand as if to brush Chet's suggestion away. "I just don't wanna remember how I got it, is all. So let's just be sure the six of us get together some other time, soon, and we'll do it then. How 'bout that, Marco?"

"Sounds good to me," Marco replied.

Johnny snapped his fingers. "Marco! I forgot—we met your cousin Ben."

Marco's eyes widened. "Ben Houlihan? Really?"

"Yep—he came by our place a couple times for this business. And, he responded to the, uh, assault. Called my fellow paramedics on me, thank you very much. But other than that, he's a great kid. Guy, I mean."

Marco laughed. "Yeah, he's got the same problem you did at that age, Johnny. He's twenty-three or twenty-four, you know."

"I figured," Johnny said, rolling his eyes. "I guess I'm gettin' old, huh, if I can call a grown man—a cop, no less—a kid."

"Look at it this way," Mike said. "At least now, you look like you're an adult, even if you do still get carded."

The old friends ate their lunch, good-natured bantering flying through the house. After lunch, Joanne insisted that she and Chris do the clean-up from the meal, even though Chris protested mightily that he was far more interested in the sandblasting. Jenny happily stayed with Johnny. This time, their diversion was Johnny teaching Jenny how to take a BP reading, listening for the different sounds through the stethoscope.

The rest of the men were outside, getting started on the task of blasting the pink paint off the front of the house. Marco had explained most of the procedure and assigned tasks to the men.

"And the last thing is—and this is weird—we're not actually using sand. We're gonna use ground up almond and pistachio shells. They're softer than brick, but harder than paint, so they'll take off the paint without wearing away any of the brick." He clapped his hands together. "Okay, everybody ready?"

As soon as the machinery started up, Johnny and Jenny couldn't hear themselves think. They retreated to the dining room, but found that the noise was just as loud anywhere in the front of the house.

"I don't know, kids; I think we should probably just go home," Joanne said. She looked at Johnny's drooping eyelids. "Johnny, do you want to come back with us so you can get a quiet nap?"

Johnny shook his head. "Thanks, Joanne, but then someone would just have to bring me back here later, so I'll just pop in some earplugs and sleep while the guys are working. I feel like a jerk napping while they're all out there working, but there we are."

"There we are indeed," Joanne said. "Well, what did you think of Hank's surprise?"

"The equipment, or who brought it?" Johnny asked.

"Either, or both."

"Both. Both those surprises—well, they were just what we needed," Johnny admitted. When he'd first seen Marco, and realized what was happening, he felt something inside him get glued back together again—something that had been broken for a long time.

"And now what it looks like you need," said Joanne, "is a nap. So I think, kids, it's definitely time for us to head home, since there's not much more we can do here."

"Okay, Mom," Jenny said. "Uncle Johnny, are you sure you'll be able to sleep? Cause you really need to, you know."

"I'm sure. In fact, I'm not so sure I'll be able to stay awake much longer."

"All right," said Joanne. "Chris, you ready?"

"Yeah." Chris was sulking, not having been invited to work on the sandblasting project, which already had far more hands than were needed.

"How about the back door?" said Johnny. "That way you won't get blasted on the way out."

"Good thinking," said Joanne. "C'mon, kids."

"Bye," said Johnny, as he stood up to head for his nap. "Thanks a lot for helping out—all of you."

"You're welcome," they each said.

Johnny struggled into the bed, and shoved a pair of earplugs in. He could still hear—or perhaps feel—a low-pitched vibration, but all the high-frequency noise from the process was blocked by the earplugs. He wished he could be helping—especially since he was the only one of the original Station 51 A-shift who wasn't out there right now—but it just wasn't an option. He hadn't told Mike, but he'd taken another hydrocodone after their make-up making out had aggravated his ribs, so it was high time to hit the hay before he got silly and foggy.

Johnny's next-to-last thought, as he was lulled to sleep by the rumble coming up through the floor, was a sinking reminder of how one tiny misunderstanding—one poor choice of words on his part, one small leap to an incorrect conclusion on Mike's part—made him feel worse than he'd ever felt in his entire life. His _last _thought, though, was one he had most nights in the last year or so as he drifted off to sleep. Or at least, he'd thought it most nights, until the last week or so, when it had been muted by the stress of the harassment and then the assault. And that last thought, which was finally allowed to surface again, was one of his favorites of all times: _I'm a luckier, happier man than I ever thought I'd be_.

**TBC**


	35. All Cleaned Up

**Chapter 35: All Cleaned Up**

The sound of the sandblasting—Mike couldn't bring himself to think of it as "nutshell blasting—" was irritating, more than deafening, at least from the perspective of people used to working with fire equipment. The compressor was noisy, no doubt about it, but the sound of the particles hitting the brick face of the house wasn't nearly as grating as Mike had thought it would be.

The men took turns manning the business end of the blasting equipment. Being experienced with handling the pressure of firefighting hoses, none of them had trouble managing the comparatively mild pressure the sandblasting equipment created. Still, they all enjoyed seeing the ugly pink paint seem to evaporate, so there was some squabbling over whose turn it was next.

After his second turn with the end of the sprayer, Mike noticed Hank Stanley giving him a frown.

Hank approached Mike and addressed him quietly. "Mike," he said, "you're still hobbling a bit. Why don't you go inside and put that leg up for a while? We've obviously got more people out here than we really need, anyhow."

Mike was grateful for Cap's discretion, but had to decline. "Thanks for asking, Cap, but I really want to be out here with you guys, you know? Partly since Marco, you know, really put himself out there to help us out, and partly because I'm just so sick of not being able to do anything about all this crap."

Cap nodded. "I can see your point, on both counts. Just try not to overdo it too much, okay? Because honestly, you look like you might be coming down with something, which I sure as heck would be if I'd had the kind of week you guys just had."

"Actually, you just reminded me to go take my antibiotics," Mike said ruefully. "Because I did get sick—turns out that screw came loose last weekend partly because I had a low-grade infection brewing in there, and what with everything that happened, I forgot to take the antibiotics Dr. Early sent me home with. So I guess it's not surprising I look sick."

Hank's frown deepened. "Go take that pill, and do yourself a favor while you're in there, will you, and drink a huge glass of water or something. And stand in front of an AC vent for a few minutes, too. Seriously, pal, I understand why you need to be out here, but you gotta take care of yourself."

Mike nodded, ducking his head sheepishly at even a mild chewing out from his old captain. "Okay, Cap. Will do. Thanks for the reminder."

Mike took another look at the front of the house, which was more than halfway cleaned off, and went through the gate to enter the house via the kitchen door. He reflexively toed off his shoes and left them at the side door, and traipsed down the hallway to the bathroom, where he picked up the bottle of antibiotics. He took the bottle back to the kitchen, realizing that if he left it in the medicine cabinet he'd certainly continue to forget to take the pills. He opened the bottle, took out a tablet, and downed it with a large glass of water.

From the kitchen, Mike had a flash of anxiety when he noticed that the the message light was flashing on his answering machine. He wondered, briefly, how long it would be before he could see that flashing light and not expect to hear static-covered and horrible words. He pressed "play," and laughed at himself when he heard the message from the garage that his truck was all set with new tires and could be picked up any time before five. He could probably get a ride back into town from Roy or Chet, both of whom would be passing close to the garage on their way home. He called back, thanked the garage for their quick turnaround, and assured them he'd be there by five.

Mike took a quick physical inventory of himself. He realized he was still thirsty, and got another glass of water, adding some ice this time. He sat at a chair at the dining room table to drink his water. He felt sluggish and heavy, but that could have been either from the infection, the caffeine withdrawal, or still being short on sleep and long on stress. And, he realized, he was developing the headache Dr. Early had warned him to expect.

It wasn't like other headaches he'd experienced. It didn't start at the back of his neck, reaching up from tense neck muscles to latch onto his scalp and squeeze through his skull to his brain. This time, it felt more like there was too much blood in his head—like there was pressure expanding from the inside, rather than squeezing from the outside. He decided to nip that in the bud, and rose from his chair to head back to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom for some Tylenol. As he stepped forward, a glint of light from the floor caught his eye. He instinctively moved his bare foot slightly to the right of where he'd been going to step, and bent down to take a closer look.

An inch-long diamond-shaped piece of glass was sticking straight up from a crack in the grout between two tiles on the floor. He'd missed it with his foot by only a fraction of an inch.

_That would've just taken the cake_, Mike thought, as he carefully plucked the glass out from the crack in the grout. He tossed it in the kitchen trash, and went to the bathroom to get the Tylenol, picking his shoes up from the side door and slipping them back on along the way.

The bathroom mirror revealed to Mike why Cap expressed concern about his well being. He had dark half-circles under his eyes, and his eyeballs were still as bloodshot as they'd been the previous day when he was on his caffeine binge. His cheeks were tinged with pink, but that color looked unhealthy sitting on top of an overall greyish tone that was by no means Mike's normal coloration. He opened the medicine cabinet and got himself two Tylenol tablets. He grabbed the thermometer, and took it with him back to the dining room.

Mike waited a few minutes before placing it under his tongue, since he'd just drunk ice water. But, after a few minutes, he got a believable reading: 100.5 degrees. He sighed, washed the thermometer at the kitchen sink, and left it in its case on the counter next to the antibiotics. He finished his ice water, and returned outside to rejoin the guys.

In the short time Mike had been inside, the house was another quarter of the way closer to being finished. Chet was joyously and enthusiastically manning the wand of the blasting equipment, and Marco stood by the compressor with protective headphones on, while Roy and Hank stood back, watching. Mike joined them.

"I think of the six of us," Cap shouted over the noise, "Chet might just officially be the least grown up now."

"Or maybe just the best at having fun," Mike suggested. "You should've seen him over here last weekend with the water balloons."

After another few minutes, Chet relinquished control of the wand to Cap, who demolished another third of the remaining paint before he handed control over to Roy. Roy then stopped when there was another small portion to be erased, and handed the wand off to Mike.

"It's all yours, Mike," Marco shouted over the compressor. "Kill it off!"

Mike gleefully erased the remaining splashes of pink enamel. When the final traces were gone, Marco shut off the compressor and everyone cheered.

Mike stood back and looked at the house. "Wow, guys. Thanks a lot—except for the plywood over the window, it's like nothing ever happened." He turned to Marco. "I can't thank you enough, Marco. We seriously had no idea how to even figure out who could do this job. And we sure didn't think it would be done any time soon."

Marco flashed a brilliant smile. "It was my pleasure, Mike. I'm glad I could help. We all felt really rotten for you guys."

"Anyone need a drink?" Mike asked.

Four hot and sweaty men replied in the affirmative. Everyone pitched in to load the equipment back into the truck, and then trooped indoors.

"I guess we should be quiet," said Cap, "if Johnny's still sleeping."

"Nah," said Mike. "He can pretty much sleep through anything, and I'm pretty sure he had earplugs in for the sandblasting noise anyhow. Oh—and leave your shoes on—I just had a near miss with a huge hunk of glass." He turned to the guys to get drink orders. "Marco, what can I get you? We've got OJ, beer, and soda."

"Just a 7-Up for me if you've got it—I have to drive the truck back to L.A. pretty soon, actually."

Mike handed a green can to Marco, and then took care of the rest of the orders. Everyone settled into the living room.

"So, uh, what's next, Mike?" Chet asked. "Roy said they got the guys—are they the same guys who did all this bullshit?"

"We think so," said Mike.

"Who the hell are they, anyhow?" Cap asked, frowning.

"The weird thing is, we don't know either of the guys. Johnny dated the sister of one of 'em, real briefly, way back when. But we'd never laid eyes on either of the two guys before," Mike explained. "And I'll tell you," he admitted, "when I first saw that guy standing over me last night, it was all I could do to not just … well, do some really serious damage. I think if my co-worker hadn't taken him down, the creep would be in a world of hurt right now."

"Well, he woulda deserved it," Chet said darkly.

"Yeah, but then _I'd_ probably be in jail now instead of him," said Mike. "Because I'm not entirely sure how far I would've gone with that creep."

"How's John doing?" Cap asked quietly.

Mike knew he wasn't asking about the physical healing.

"Uh, not so hot, actually. And that's all I'm gonna say," Mike said carefully.

"Just one thing—does he want people to ask him if he's okay, or is it better not to ask him?" Cap pressed.

Mike looked at each of the guys in turn. "I … don't know if it's the best thing in the long run," he said slowly, "but for now, he's made it clear that he's pretty much had it with the whole topic."

"Understandable," said Cap. "I mean, he's used to getting beaten up by forces of nature and inanimate objects, on the job, but, well, this is entirely different."

"That's … very perceptive, Cap. As always," Mike said. "But guys? Can we talk about something else? Please?"

Marco came to the rescue, for the second time that day. "I'd love to hear about what you've been working on in the Fire Investigation unit," he said. "If you're allowed to say."

Mike was relieved to talk about something safe—and had plenty to tell the guys about the more interesting aspects of his job. He laid out all his job duties, and told some stories about some of the more interesting experiences he'd had. "I think my favorite part," he concluded, "is going out to a scene, during overhaul, and gathering physical evidence. But to tell the truth, I also don't mind the writing—it kind of, I don't know, suits me, to be able to put it all neatly together at the end. Taking something messy and ugly and wrapping it up in a neat package is perfect for a neat freak and control freak like me."

"You think you'll ever do any testifying?" Marco asked.

Mike nodded. "It's only a matter of time and experience, really. But eventually, yes."

"I can see you being good at that," said Marco. "Back when we were all at 51s, you never talked much, but when you did, you were always clear—especially about technical stuff. I remember one time, when there were some scouts visiting the station—teenagers, I think—you pretty much taught them half of what they'd need to know to operate the pumps on Big Red," he recalled. "You had their undivided attention for a really, really long time."

Mike laughed. "Well, that's not exactly a jury of our peers, but I'll take it," he said. "Honestly, testifying in court is probably the last thing anyone from any of my old stations would imagine me doing, but there we are."

"Listen," said Marco. "I hate to say it, but I really have to get going. I have to be back home by five, to help with one of my mother's parties, and it's almost four now."

"You know what?" said Mike. "Lemme go get Johnny. I know he'll want to see you before you head out. And he oughta be getting up anyhow. I think he's up to twelve hours of sleep since midnight."

"Okay," said Marco. "As long as you're sure it's okay to wake him up."

"It's definitely okay to wake me up," said Johnny, appearing from around the corner. He sat on the arm of the couch next to Mike. "What's goin' on, guys?"

"We finished getting rid of that paint, Johnny," Marco said. "And unfortunately, I gotta go, or I'll be in big trouble at home. But come on out—take a look!"

"Sure thing," said Johnny, walking Marco to the door.

"Holy smokes," Johnny said, staring at the house. "Man, you really did it!"

"We really did it," said Marco. He shifted back and forth from foot to foot as he watched Johnny looking at the front of the house. "Johnny," he continued tentatively, "I, uh …"

Johnny turned to face Marco, and waited for him to continue.

"I hope we can be friends again," Marco said quietly.

"I'm not sure we ever stopped being friends," said Johnny, "depending on your definition. Mike and I—well, we missed you, after I left 51s, but we never stopped … well, being fond of you, wondering how you were doing, that sorta thing. Cap kept us up to date some. But it was pretty hard, knowing that someone we liked and respected didn't seem to … be able to be around us any more."

Marco looked down at the ground. "When I first found out about you guys—it was the morning Mike had his accident. The wake-up tones sounded, and you and Roy were gone, and Cap and Chet were just sitting there, at the big table in the day room, when Ed and I came out. I didn't remember hearing the squad get called out, so I asked Cap what was going on. And man, he just sat there, staring at his coffee, and me and Ed looked at each other, figuring someone had bought it, and we were just waiting to hear who it was.

"And then Cap said it—all he said was, 'Mike Stoker got hurt early this morning, and he's in real bad shape, fellas.' And you know what it was like? It was like when I heard Kennedy had been shot—one of those moments that just burns itself into your brain. And Chet—he seemed to understand why you and Roy weren't there, but me? I didn't have a clue. I asked Cap what he knew, and he told us. And then Chet said something like 'So Roy took John out there?'

"But I didn't get it. I forget what I said—something like 'Huh? That's not even close to our district—why would they go out there?' And Chet—he just looked at me, and looked at Cap, and then he dragged me by the arm back into the dorm, and sat me down on my bunk, and laid it all out in black and white."

Johnny sat down in the grass, and motioned for Marco to join him. Marco sat cross-legged in front of Johnny, and continued.

"And man, you know what the first thing I thought was?"

"That you didn't get it?" Johnny asked. "That you couldn't believe that a guy like me, and a guy like him—"

"No!" Marco said. "I mean, yes, I thought that too. But the first thing I thought was, seems like everybody knows about this except for me."

"I don't think anyone in that room knew anything at that point except for Cap. And Marco, we didn't tell him—he just figured it out, all on his own. And I guess if he and Cap were sitting at the table, maybe Cap had just explained things to Chet. We didn't tell people, Marco—how _could_ we?"

Marco shook his head. "I don't know. I guess you couldn't. But—well, I just felt like everyone must've known for a while. I guess that's because maybe even though Chet only had found out a little while before I did, he … um … isn't as uncomfortable with … that sort of thing as I am. But that was the first thing I thought, and I couldn't help it."

"That's all right. But now you know, that's not how it was."

"And the second thing I thought was, 'It's a good thing they didn't tell me, 'cause I don't see how I could have worked with them.'"

Johnny digested that for a second—it wasn't an entirely unexpected revelation. But he knew it wasn't where Marco wanted to stop, so he moved along. "What was the third thing you thought?"

"The third thing was, 'How could they tell everyone else, but not me?' And the fourth thing: 'Because they knew I wouldn't understand.' And the next thing? 'But they're my friends, so it shouldn't matter.' And I went back and forth, back and forth in my head.

"But then, I went to see Mike in the hospital, when he could first have visitors other than you. The first time I went, the nurse said to go on in—that Mike would probably be pretty tired, but he was okay for visitors. So I went in, and sure enough, Mike was out cold. You were there, and you were asleep in a chair, with your head on the bed, and his arm was around you, and he had his other arm kind of across himself, and you were holding on to that hand. And you know what I did?" Marco looked Johnny right in the eye. "I turned around, and walked right back out again. Because as many times as I told myself it didn't matter, I just …"

"You were uncomfortable," said Johnny. "I know. But you came back, right? Maybe not that same day, but you came back plenty of times."

"I tried to go back in—a bunch of times. I just sat there on a bench outside his room, and I'd get up every so often, and go to the door, and then I'd just quit and sit back down again. And then I saw some guys who I guess were from Mike's shift go in, and they stayed in for a while. So when they came out, I thought, 'why can't I do that too?' So I did it. I could hardly look you in the eye, but I went in, and you left after a minute or two, and I just sat with him for a little while."

"You're lookin' me in the eye now," Johnny said.

"Cause now I see—there's plenty of stuff I … don't get, but it shouldn't matter. _Doesn't_ matter. All right?"

"All right," said Johnny. He plucked at the dry grass in the lawn. "You know, I had some thinkin' to do, too, about this whole thing."

Marco looked confused. "Like what?"

"Like, did we do the right thing, or the wrong thing, by not saying anything to you guys? And like I said, we didn't _tell_ anyone. Roy figured it out on his own, early on. And Cap figured it out when Mike came by the station to fill out his transfer request. We didn't tell _anyone_, man. And even after Mike got hit, we didn't go around sayin', oh, by the way, did you know we're Involved, with a capital 'I?' It just … became apparent. So just so you know, it's not like we were going around telling everyone except you."

"But Johnny, even Ed Jackson knew—and he didn't hardly even know Mike, being his replacement and all," Marco said.

"Well, _how_ did he know? What did he say to you?" Johnny asked patiently.

"I don't know—I asked him if he'd known about you guys, and he said he'd kind of wondered, but didn't wanna bring it up," Marco admitted. "So that made me feel real dumb, Johnny—I thought I knew both you guys real well, and I didn't have a _clue_."

Johnny cleared his throat. "All I can say, Marco, was that it seemed to us, at the time Mike was transferring, that it was, I dunno, the less bad of two bad choices to not say anything to people. But then—after Mike's accident—it was kind of a moot point. And, after, I could tell you still cared, because you came to see Mikey in the hospital, and stuff, but when I got ready to come back to work, you know what I was most worried about? Not whether Mike would manage all right at home. Not whether I'd be physically up to the job after taking a month off. But whether you'd still trust me, still let me have your back on the job. And as soon as I saw we still worked together as good as always, even though we sometimes couldn't look each other in the eye during down times, I knew it'd be okay someday. I really hoped everything would be okay by the time I left 51s to take the captaincy up north, but …" Johnny shrugged. "It wasn't."

"Is it okay now?" Marco asked. "Because I'd like it to be."

"Yeah, Marco. And you know _why_ it's okay now? Because you know, in your heart, that '_it_' doesn't matter. Even if '_it_' is somethin' you might never be able to look in the eye, you can look _me_ in the eye, and you can look _Mike_ in the eye." Johnny let the grass he'd been plucking at blow away in the breeze.

"And you know one more thing?" Johnny continued. "We've been sayin' how we're the same two guys you always knew—but we're not, really. I mean, I've learned how to behave like an adult—mosta the time, anyhow. And a lot of that—well, the Stoker influence can't be taken too lightly." Johnny punctuated that remark with a grin. "And Mike? Well, I heard him from the hallway, telling you guys stories about his job. I don't think he woulda done that three years ago, do you?"

"No. I don't think I ever heard him say much of anything about himself before," Marco said. "It's like—I don't know—maybe he's more comfortable with who he is. And could that be the Gage influence?"

"It's possible—but I think also, nearly getting killed, and having to work your way back to life from the kind of damage he took …" Johnny shook his head. "It changes you. And going through it with him changed me, too."

"You guys have been through a lot of shit together," Marco said.

"We sure have." Johnny shook his head, thinking about the last week. "But normally, when people aren't giving us the kind of shit we've taken in the last couple weeks, we're real damned happy."

"I'm … sorry that I've only been around for the bad times," Marco said, again hanging his head. "But—and this is a promise—that's over and done with."

"Good—because lemme tell you, when this shit is all over, and those bastards are in jail? It's party time, my friend."

"And even before that, I guarantee there will be some kind of Lopez fiesta. Or fiasco, depending on how much alcohol is involved."

"Drop us a line, and we'll be there," said Johnny.

"I'll do that." He stood up, and offered Johnny a hand up.

Johnny braced his ribs, and took Marco's hand from his own uninjured side, wincing as he stood up.

"See you later, Marco. And—we can't thank you enough for everything you did to help us today. I know we woulda gotten things sorted out eventually, but Mike—well, you know, he likes things to look right, and this place sure as hell didn't look right. And having you show up, with this equipment—it was great to see the equipment, but it was even better to see you."

"It was good to see you guys, too, Johnny. I'm glad I could help. I'll drop you guys a line real soon to see how you are. And I mean that." And with that, Marco climbed back into his brother's '¡Los Borradores!' truck, and drove off.

Johnny watched the truck disappear down the street. He stood out in the blazing sun for a minute or two, collecting his thoughts. He didn't figure Marco would ever be truly comfortable with 'it,' but he was relieved that it seemed like maybe he could at least look past 'it' and still see his friends there.

The rest of his friends—or a lot of the rest of his friends—were inside, so Johnny headed in. Mike met him at the door with two extra-strength Tylenol, a glass of milk, and, even better, a discreet kiss in the foyer where nobody could see.

"Hey, babe," Mike said, after letting him go. "Everything all right?" He handed Johnny the glass and the tablets, and Johnny washed them down.

"Yeah." Johnny took another couple of gulps of the cold milk. "Yeah—I was just chatting with Marco a little. It was good. I think—well, we can talk about it more later, but I'm pretty sure we're all okay."

Mike nodded. "I think so too. And not just because he saved our asses today."

"Nope. Not just 'cause of that."

"C'mon. Rest of the guys are still here," said Mike. "Let's go shoot the shit for awhile before they have to take off."

"'Kay." Johnny stopped at the kitchen for a refill, and joined the rest of the gang in the living room.

Chet heaved himself out of the recliner, and gestured to Johnny. "All yours, pal."

Johnny grinned, but shook his head. "Nuh-uh—you just saw how hard it is to get outta that thing. I get in there, and I ain't never gettin' back out again. So shove over, Mikey—I want some couch."

Mike obligingly made just enough room for Johnny to squeeze in next to him. Johnny rolled his eyes and squeezed in, even though there was still plenty of room for Mike to have moved over farther.

"House looks good as new, guys. Thanks a lot for comin' out."

"No trouble at all, John. Actually," Cap admitted, "I haven't had that much fun in a long time."

"Wish I coulda played too, but, you know," said Johnny. He blew out a breath.

"It really was fun," said Chet. "Not as much fun as water balloons, but at least nobody ended up at Rampart this time."

"Anything else we can do for you guys before we clear out?" Roy asked.

"Actually," Mike said, "if one of you guys could drop me at the garage where my truck is, that'd be great. It's just near HQ."

"I can do that," Roy said. "Chet, you live around there too, so why don't I drop you off too. Then Cap can get home."

"That'd be good," said Hank. "I'm splitting an OT shift with Len Sterling tomorrow, so I oughta spend at least a little while at home this today. You okay on your own for a while, John?"

"Yep—I think most of the heavy stuff is outta my system by now, and I wouldn't mind some time to collect my thoughts before that detective guy shows up later," Johnny said.

"Okay, then—I should get going," said Cap. "Oh—and I almost forgot—Jane sent along another one of her frozen casseroles. It's in the fridge, with instructions and everything."

Johnny grinned. "Thanks, Cap. We're probably cleanin' out her freezer for her this week, what with one thing and another, huh?"

All the guys stood up to go.

"Thanks again, guys," said Johnny.

They all trooped to the door, Cap in the lead, Roy and Chet following, with Mike trailing. Cap opened the door, and they all stepped out into the sweltering heat.

"Oops, forgot something," Mike said, immediately ducking back inside.

Chet rolled his eyes. "Uh huh," he said. "And what do you guys wanna bet that he comes back out with nothin' he didn't have before, except a stupid grin plastered on his mug?"

Mike dashed back in to the living room. "Don't move," he said to Johnny, who lowered the magazine he'd just picked up. He straddled Johnny, with his knees on the couch, and, cupping Johnny's face in his hands, kissed him thoroughly. He let go after a minute or so, and studied Johnny closely. "Try not to get too worked up about this thing with DeVito, all right?"

Johnny laughed. "That's the pot calling the kettle black if I ever heard it, but yeah. I'll try. Love you. Now shoo!"

Mike grinned widely as let himself out the front door again, locking it behind him. Yes, things were starting to look up again in the Stoker/Gage household.

Chet looked smugly at Cap and Roy as Mike emerged from the doorway. "See?"

**TBC**


	36. Introspection and Retrospection

**Chapter 36: Introspection and Retrospection **

Johnny was on his own in the house for the first time since earlier in the day of the assault. It was a little after four, and Detective DeVito was coming at six. Johnny fervently hoped that Mike would be back by the time DeVito showed up—he didn't relish the idea of being grilled by this guy without someone else present. He briefly toyed with the idea of telling DeVito he needed to cancel their appointment, but decided that no, he preferred to get the interview out of the way. It would just be rehashing the same old shit anyhow, he reminded himself, so no big deal. And he wasn't a suspect, so it wasn't like he needed a lawyer.

Johnny's mind was swirling with the events of the day. It was a bit difficult for him to believe that it had only been twenty-four hours since he was released from Rampart, but it was true. He'd gone straight to Roy's and slept until supper time, and then had stayed awake until around nine, when Jenny had sent him to bed. And eleven hours later, when he and Mike had finally gotten out of bed, he only made it a few hours until he needed to sleep again.

And it was after that morning nap that Johnny had his worst misunderstanding with Mike ever. Sure, they'd fought about things before—but usually minor things that could be easily repaired. And for sure, Johnny had seen Mike angry before—usually he fumed, but sometimes he yelled, too. But that morning was the first time Johnny had ever been the object of Mike's anger.

"_Is that what we are to you? Dirty laundry?"_

The icy coldness of Mike's voice when he'd hurled those words back at Johnny was nothing close to anything Johnny had ever experienced from him before. Johnny had explained what he'd meant, and Mike had been suitably apologetic about misunderstanding, and about not recognizing the emotional toll of the assault. But the substance behind Mike's angry retort left Johnny with some things to think about.

Johnny was happy with Mike—of that, he had no doubt whatsoever. He couldn't imagine living without him; didn't want to think about how he'd be now if the accident eighteen months ago had been just a little worse, if the car had been going just a little faster, if Mike had been thrown a little farther, or landed a little harder. But when he was brutally honest with himself, Johnny had to admit that even though he was happy, his life was nothing like how he'd imagined it would turn out.

Perhaps it was the influence of being close friends with Roy, the quintessential, All-American Family Man. He had a wife with whom he had a solid and loving relationship, he had a satisfying career, great kids, a nice house—the whole package. And even though Johnny was only a little younger than Roy chronologically, he always considered himself to be Roy's junior in many ways. So in a sense, Johnny had "grown up" with Roy as a model for how a satisfied and happy adult should live. And certainly, when Johnny had been twenty three years old, and had imagined what his thirty-three-year-old self might be doing in ten years, his current life was nothing like what his younger self would have sought.

He'd always imagined that he'd finally find a girl who could take him seriously for who he was, and would understand his job, and who would find him attractive. He'd imagined that she might be a career woman, and might want to wait a while before having children. He'd imagined that maybe she'd be a nurse, or a teacher, or a chef, or an accountant, or any number of things.

But never, ever did his younger self seriously entertain the idea of settling down with a man.

He'd never denied his own sexual orientation. In fact, he'd realized early on in his adulthood that his encounters with men were easier, held less pressure, and were generally more successful than his encounters with women. Perhaps it was because when he got together with a man, in Johnny's own mind—and usually in that of his partner's as well—the hook-up was for fun, for mutual gratification, for stress relief, but not for keeps. Twice in twelve years, Johnny found himself dating the same guy for a few months in a row. The longest he'd ever dated one woman exclusively was three months, and those relationships had all petered out on their own. He'd had a near miss with a woman he'd actually asked to marry him, after having known her for only a few weeks, but had found out in the nick of time that she wasn't who he thought she was. And other than that one time, he'd never really considered settling down.

Until Mike.

They'd come together almost by accident, when, in a moment of stress, Mike had said something about himself that could have been interpreted any number of ways, and Johnny had taken a huge chance and followed that remark with an unambiguous statement about his own sexual orientation. From that moment, when the invisible wall between them had been lifted, it was like they'd never not been together. And, for about a year after they got together, Johnny was too happy, too caught up in love, to question whether he would feel fulfillment in a life that didn't come close to meeting what he'd imagined.

Johnny had always imagined he would get married someday—and he'd always imagined that defining moment, where he would ask a woman he loved to commit herself to him for the rest of their lives. He'd imagined they'd have children, and that maybe he'd get some nieces and nephews in the bargain, and of course some in-laws, who probably wouldn't like him.

But it didn't work out that way. A year after that invisible wall had disappeared, Mike had nearly gotten killed when an inattentive driver hit him on the scene of an MVA. As soon as Mike was out of the woods, and Johnny could think about something other than whether Mike was going to live or die, Johnny realized he'd settled down without even noticing. He'd settled down with Mike, and, after nearly losing him, Johnny was desperate to have some promise of permanence, some symbol of the fact that they both knew that only death would separate them. And he'd gotten it, when Mike said 'I do' and slipped a ring onto Johnny's finger.

Johnny knew his life was great, but it wasn't anything like what he'd imagined.

There were parents-in-law, who surprised Mike by showing up for their backyard ceremony. and surprised Johnny by actually seeming to like him. There were a niece and a nephew, who Johnny would probably never meet, as Mike's brother had made it completely clear he wanted nothing to do with him. There was a sister-in-law, who lived in New York and only made it to California once a year.

There wouldn't be any children, of course. And every now and then, Johnny found himself thinking about that cold, hard fact of life. Sitting on the couch right now, thinking about how different his life was from how he'd imagined it would be, was one of those times. Every now and then, Johnny found himself mourning the loss of something he'd never had.

It didn't happen often—usually Johnny could think of some trigger that brought up the thought. And today's trigger was his fight with Mike that morning, which was causing Johnny to do some serious thinking.

Was he ashamed, like Mike had first suspected, of the fact that he'd settled down with a man instead of a woman, like he'd been supposed to do? No, he could answer himself honestly on that one—definitely not.

Did he have some regrets? Possibly, but none that were even close to making him want to leave and start over somewhere else—not even close.

Was he acutely aware, on a daily basis, that he wasn't following the rules of society? And did his breaking of the rules lead to consequences, pain, awkwardness, and frustration? Every single damned day.

So, he asked himself, had he been honest with Mike that morning? Yes, he had—he wasn't ashamed of them. But were there things about settling down with Mike that bothered him? There were, and they weren't likely to ever go away. Would he ever leave Mike to try to fix any of those things? No chance in hell. Did they still bother him, even though he knew he'd never try to change them? Yep.

Johnny sat on the couch, head spinning with a dizzying matrix of ups and downs, highs and lows, satisfaction and regret, for over an hour. The sun had crossed behind the house, and, with the plywood over the window, it looked more like it was eight thirty in the evening than five thirty. Johnny was so immersed in his own thoughts that he didn't realize how dark it had gotten in the room.

Johnny became dimly aware of the sound of a vehicle in the driveway. He was jolted out of his reverie by the realization that it could be the detective, but then the front door opened and Mike came in. Mike stopped short in the living room when he saw Johnny, sitting cross-legged and motionless on the couch in the exact place Mike had left him ninety minutes earlier.

"Uh-oh. Sitting in the dark and brooding, huh?" Mike said. "That's a bit of a role reversal. Should I be worried?"

Johnny gave an honest answer. "I have no idea. It's usually you doing the brooding, so I'm stumped."

Mike snorted. "I'll remind you how it goes. When it's me brooding, it usually ends up with you talking me out of a funk, and then me talking you into the bedroom, and then us having scorching hot sex."

Johnny squirmed. "I bet we can manage the first part, but, uh …"

"Geez—no, I know. Sorry, that was a dumb-ass thing to say." Mike sat down next to Johnny, and brushed his too-long hair away from his eyes. "A penny for your thoughts."

Johnny considered evasive maneuvers, but realized Mike deserved to know what he'd been thinking about. "Not sure they're worth that much. Just kind of going over our, uh, misunderstanding this morning. Thinkin' about life, and stuff."

Mike nodded. "I was thinking about that in the truck on the way home. I'm really sorry about what I thought, and what I said—I should've known that wasn't what you meant."

"Nah, I'm not worried about that any more—I was more, just—ah, I dunno. It's dumb. Never mind." Johnny shook his head. "Just brooding, I guess."

"Well, whatever it is, it's gotten you pretty down. So, at risk of perpetuating this weird role reversal, I'm asking you to please tell me what's going on in that shaggy head of yours. I doubt I'll think it's dumb—remember, you're looking at the grand champion of looking on the bleak side," Mike reminded him.

Johnny considered that fact. "All right. But don't take this the wrong way, okay? I don't want you to think I regret being with you—because I don't. It's just that … my life didn't turn out the way I thought it would."

"You mean you never thought you'd settle down?"

Johnny hesitated. "I kinda did, actually. I kinda figured, someday I'd find a woman who didn't think I was an idiot, and get married, and, well …"

"Have some kids?" Mike added quietly. "I know you think about that."

"Do _you_ think about it?" Johnny asked. "I mean, it's pointless, because we can't, but _do_ you?"

"Not really—I always knew I wouldn't be with a woman. I mean, I know there's plenty of guys like me who get married, have kids, the whole nine yards—but I just couldn't do that." Mike shook his head. "It'd be a total sham, and I don't do shams."

"Me neither," said Johnny. "But, you know, I go—went—both ways, so I coulda done it, and it wouldn'ta been a sham." He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear away the cobwebs. "And like I said—I don't regret being with you. Don't ever think that."

Mike captured Johnny's slender hand with his broad one. "But a consequence, for you, of our being together, is that you won't have children," Mike said. "You can regret that, and not regret us. I can understand that."

"You can?" Johnny looked at Mike. "You really can?"

"I really can," Mike assured him.

"Then you're one step ahead of me, as always. I'm still tryin' to wrap my head around all that stuff."

"Well," Mike said, turning Johnny's hand over in his own, "I've had a lot more of my life to think about it. You always thought you'd settle down with a girl, but then—surprise!—you ended up with me, and there's some consequences to that. I've had my whole adult life to think about the results of not following the rules of society, but you never thought you'd have to deal with any of those things. Not once you settled down and got married. And now the very ugliest, the sickest consequences have been piled on us over the last week—Jesus, has it only been a week? So it's no wonder you're thinking about that stuff right now."

"I'm glad I ended up with you," Johnny repeated. "No matter all the shit that happens." He sighed heavily. "Like that detective coming soon. Man, I hope we didn't make a mistake, having him come here instead of us goin' there."

"I'm pretty sure we didn't. For one thing, if it'd been there, it wouldn't have been 'us.' He would've put you in an interview room, and it would've been you and him. Here it's both of us, and it's our turf."

Johnny frowned. "You're talking like you're expecting there to be a problem. I'm just dreading it because I don't wanna hafta dredge up all that shit yet again. I mean, does he seriously think I'm gonna have anything new to say?"

"Well, he did say there were some new questions that came up after they talked with the suspects. So maybe one of 'em spilled something that they need to follow up on, or something like that," Mike said, still holding Johnny's hand.

"I guess. But why just me? Why did he say he just wanted to talk to me, and not to _us_?" Johnny could feel his heart rate increasing, and scowled as he realized how worked up he was getting.

"Sorry, babe; I just don't know. But I'll be here, all right?"

"I know you will." Johnny carefully, but shakily, drew in a deep breath, partly to calm himself, and partly to try to relax the muscles in his torso that had tensed up and were tugging on his sore ribs.

Mike leaned in and put his forehead to Johnny's, and kissed him gently. "I'm gonna make coffee for this cop—don't have any donuts around, so the coffee's just gonna have to do it. You want any?"

"Yeah—I'm gettin' sleepy again already, if you can believe that. And I guess it would be poor form to fall asleep during the interview, right?" Johnny looked up at Mike. "You're still not having any, huh?"

"Nope—doctor's orders. Plus—well, I still never really filled you in on the whole coming unhinged thing," Mike said from the kitchen, loudly enough that Johnny could hear him without getting up. "I mean, I told you about my rant to Dr. Early, but I never really told you what I did to Wes Harris—I was thinking about that on the way home, too." Mike finished setting up the coffee maker, and, suddenly remembering they would have to eat eventually, stuck Jane Stanley's casserole in the oven, and sat back down with Johnny.

"I'll tell you, I really freaked him out—freaked myself out, too. He walked into my office right as I was throwing my phone across the room because that asshole had just called me. Static in the background and everything. So, I nearly pelted Harris with the phone, and all he did was to ask me why I was acting like such a lunatic. And what did I do? Good old calm Mike Stoker practically shoved poor Wes down into a chair and ranted to him about how some asshole from the department who doesn't like that you and I are together has been fucking with our lives. And I put all my favorite pictures of you and of us right in front of him on my desk, and said if he didn't like it, he could jump out the window, and so could everyone else in the department."

Johnny's eyes were wide. "Okay. Wow. That's not like you at all."

"Nope. And the next thing—this was really weird—five seconds later, I was deadly calm again, and got right back to business as usual." Mike shook his head. "It's like it was a movie I saw, not actually something I really did."

"That's like how it was when those guys took me down in the alley," Johnny admitted. "It was like I was standing there watching, from the other end of the alley, but also feeling everything at the same time." He shuddered. "And in about ten minutes, I get to go through it aaaallll over again. Goody."

Mike didn't say anything for a few seconds. He knew this interview, no matter what DeVito asked, was going to be really hard for Johnny. "What do you want me to do, I mean, while he's here? Would you rather I were in the other room, keeping an eye out and an ear open from a distance, or—"

"No!" Johnny exclaimed. "No. In fact …" Johnny looked around at the arrangement of the living room. "You know what? Let's move things around a little. Let's put the recliner way off on the side, and the other comfortable chair way on the other side, and then we'll put the uncomfortable chair right there across from the couch, and give him that one."

Mike raised an eyebrow.

"I mean," Johnny added, "not to be mean, but if we give him a cushy chair he might stay forever. And I guess we can't not give him coffee, if I'm having it, but no ashtray."

Mike started moving the chairs around. "We don't let people smoke in here anyhow, Johnny. We don't even have any ashtrays."

"Yeah, I know, but, like, if there's not one there, then he knows he shouldn't get too comfy, right?"

Mike shook his head, smiling. Johnny wasn't making a whole lot of sense, but was sounding more like himself. "I guess so." He pushed their least comfortable chair into position across from the couch. "How's that?" he asked. "Besides underhanded, sneaky, and devious, that is."

"Perfect!" Johnny glanced at the clock in the dining room. "I guess he could be here any second. I oughta take a leak before he gets here." He laboriously rose from the sofa, and headed down the hall to the bathroom. He took care of business, and was relieved to see that although there was still blood in his urine, it didn't look any worse than it had the day before, despite the fact that he'd been moving around a lot more. As he was washing up, he heard the doorbell. He dried his hands and shuffled back down the hallway, feeling odd wearing his shoes in the house.

Mike answered the door, with Johnny standing just behind him.

"Detective DeVito?"

The man nodded, but didn't move forward, as Mike was standing in the middle of the doorway. "I'm Mike Stoker. No offense, but can we please see your ID? Anonymous harassment has a way of making you paranoid."

The man pulled an ID wallet from his pocket, flipped it open, and handed the gold shield to Mike. He looked at it and passed it to Johnny, who stepped forward and passed it back to the detective. "John Gage," he said, extending a hand.

"Tom DeVito," the detective said, shaking hands with Johnny, then Mike, who stepped aside and let him in.

Mike showed him to the living room. "Watch your step—there might still be some glass around," he said, ushering DeVito to the chair Johnny had selected for him. "Coffee?"

The detective looked surprised. "Sure, thanks. Black. Probably had too much already today, but that's the way it goes." He turned around to look at the boarded up window. "Too bad that happened on a Friday. Probably no chance of getting it taken care of till Monday, right?"

"Not unless we wanted to pay triple," Johnny said.

"I did notice the paint is gone from the house—I was out here yesterday morning, and it looked pretty awful. How'd you get rid of it so fast?"

Johnny grinned. "Buddy from the fire department borrowed sandblasting equipment from his brother, and with an entire shift of firemen, we made quick work of it. I mean," he amended, "they did. I'm still not supposed to do anything, with the cracked ribs and all."

Mike came back in and set a mug in front of DeVito, and another next to Johnny on the side table, where he wouldn't have to bend to reach it. He sat down on the couch next to Johnny, and watched as DeVito opened the notebook he'd been holding since he came in.

"All right. Let's get down to business," said DeVito. "We interviewed both of the suspects in your case thoroughly last night, and are satisfied that we have the right people in custody, and that there's nobody else we need to be looking for. The first guy we picked up, Torrelli, claims no personal knowledge of either of you, and also claims that he had nothing to do with the assault. He admits he was there, but denies laying a hand on you. So the first thing I want to hear from you, Mr. Gage, is as detailed a description as you can give of the assault, with emphasis on anything you can recall clearly about who did what."

Johnny shook his head. "Man, I don't think I can tell you anything new. I already told Houlihan everything I remember—everything. There was the taller guy, who was wearing cowboy boots with pointy toes. The shorter guy was wearing black sneakers."

"All right," said DeVito, "those are good details. What happened first?"

"They both grabbed me—I'm sure of that. There was one guy on one side of me, and the other guy on the other side. I got, uh, slammed up against the wall, and—"

DeVito interrupted. "Were they both touching you at this point?"

"Yeah, definitely. Look," Johnny sighed. "I told Houlihan all this before, all right? Why do you have to ask me again?"

"Because I need to establish exactly which parts of the assault had both men involved, all right? So let's continue. You were up against the wall, and you're sure they were both in physical contact with you at that point?"

"Yes! Jesus." Johnny tried to take a deep breath to calm himself, but stopped short. "All right. At that point I kicked out backwards, with both feet, hard enough that both my feet were off the ground, and there's no way just one guy coulda held me up against the wall for that, all right? And plus, I could tell one guy had one side of me, and the other guy had the other, all right? So yeah, it was definitely two guys."

"And you did try to fight back," DeVito said as he wrote something in his notebook. "I didn't have that detail before."

"Of _course_ I fucking tried to fight back! Jesus Christ! Did you think I was just gonna stand there and _take_ it?" Johnny was breathing hard, his ribs stabbing him with pain on every breath.

"You didn't mention it before," DeVito said. "Let's move along. You kicked backwards from the wall. Then what?"

"They pinned me up against the wall even tighter. The tall guy talked right in my ear."

"How do you know it was the tall guy?"

"Because," Johnny said, starting to sound like he was talking to a preschooler, "he talked right in my ear. I'm six one. The shorter guy was maybe five seven, five eight. He wouldn't have reached."

"Okay—that's another good detail. What did the tall guy say, as best as you can remember?"

Johnny looked to Mike for support. He really didn't want to recount the exact words, but he knew he had to. Mike nodded. "It's okay, Johnny. They're just words."

Johnny sighed, and continued. "He said—and I don't know if this is exact, but it was something like this: 'You didn't listen to us. You were supposed to quit, and scram, but you didn't listen, pretty Captain.' And that's how I knew it was the same guy—because of what he called me, and because he was repeating what he'd said on the answering machine."

"Did you recognize the voice?" DeVito asked.

"It was hard to tell," Johnny admitted. "But the other guy—he talked next—I knew when I heard _his_ voice that he wasn't the one from the messages."

"Okay—let's make sure we're not skipping ahead. So the taller guy talked, and then what?"

"That's when they slammed my head into the wall real hard. At the same time as he said 'Captain'— bam!"

"Could you tell who was holding, and who was slamming?"

"No," Johnny admitted, "but there were definitely four hands on me, or I wouldn't have still been there."

"Staib isn't a small guy, and he looks pretty strong—he might've been able to hold you on his own."

Johnny gaped at DeVito. "Are you clear on what I do for a living? I have to be able to drag a guy bigger than me, in full turnout gear and an air pack, out of a burning building, by myself. So no—he wouldn't have been able to hold me on his own."

"All right—then what happened?"

"The other guy said something like I could try to get a look at them, and right after that, they turned me around and slammed me into the wall again."

"They turned you around—so your back was to the wall?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"That might've been a good time to try to fight back again," DeVito added unhelpfully.

"Now, wait a second!" said Johnny.

"Detective, that was completely unnecessary," Mike said coldly.

"Mr. Stoker, I'm asking the questions here," DeVito said, without looking at Mike.

"That wasn't a _question_," Mike pointed out. "And I think there wasn't time to fight back, from what I heard."

Johnny continued. "Yeah, I _woulda_ fought back if there'd been more than half a second before they punched me in the gut and knocked my wind out."

"They?" asked DeVito. "Did they both hit you?"

"It was the tall guy. He hit me in the gut, twice. Knew exactly what he was doing, to knock the breath right outta me. The short guy shoved me down on the ground after that, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Then they started kickin' me."

"Do you know who kicked you where?"

"The eye was definitely the sneaker, because I saw it comin'. I don't know what kind of shoe got me in the kidney, but the ribs—that was definitely the cowboy boot. Whatever hit me was sharp, and hard. Not a sneaker."

DeVito wrote some more in his notebook. "Okay—so you're sure that each one of them definitely kicked you at least once?"

"One hundred percent positive," Johnny said.

"We'll need to talk to the doctor who treated your rib injuries, to see if he can say whether that injury is consistent with being kicked by a cowboy boot, since you couldn't see that one coming," DeVito said. "The medical records we got reported on the injuries, but not about what kind of shoe could've caused them."

"Fine by me," Johnny said. "Dr. Kelly Brackett, at Rampart. You already have a signed release to get medical records; I'll sign something else for Rampart if they need me to for him to be able to talk to you."

"Then what happened, after the three kicks?" DeVito continued.

"I knew my ribs were broken, and I still couldn't breathe. I heard someone shout at the other end of the alley, and then I think the guys left."

"You didn't see them leave?"

"No—I hadn't breathed for a while, and I was pretty close to passin' out. You know—when you start to kinda get tunnel vision?"

"And did you lose consciousness at any point?" DeVito asked.

"No—I was able to breathe again shortly after that guy Robert showed up."

"All right," DeVito said. "I think that's all I need in that area. Let's move on."

Johnny frowned. "I don't get it—what else do you need to ask about? They didn't do anything else to me after that, and I was at Rampart pissin' half my blood out when they trashed the house."

DeVito looked up from his notebook. "When we interviewed Mr. Staib, we were trying to get an idea of what his motives were for the series of crimes. He told us a lot before he lawyered up, but there were some things we wanted to follow up on with you."

"Okay, like what?" Johnny asked guardedly.

"First of all—you reported to Deputy Houlihan that you'd remembered that a girl you'd dated had a relative with possible ties to the fire department."

"Yeah, Lynn Nolan." Johnny shook his head. "Man, she was weird."

"We'll get to that," said DeVito. "Your association with her may be relevant. Staib is her half brother, and he mentioned that you dated her quite a while ago, and that you broke off the relationship, and that some time after you did so, she discovered that you were in a relationship with Mr. Stoker, and she was apparently quite upset by that. We need some clarification on the sequence of events, please."

Johnny squirmed. "Look—this is getting awful personal. Is it really relevant?"

"We need a timeline. When you were dating Ms. Nolan, were you already involved with Mr. Stoker, or not?"

"Not," Johnny said coldly. "Jesus. What kind of person do you think I am?"

"We just have to nail these things down," DeVito said, "because a jury, especially with your type, is—"

"My _type_?" Johnny interrupted. "_Excuse_ me?"

DeVito looked at him sharply. "You dated women, and now you're living with a man. One of the suspects is convinced that your behavior towards his sister contributed to her mental breakdown, so in order to understand his motives, we have to understand exactly what happened between Ms. Nolan and yourself, Mr. Gage."

Mike interrupted again. "What, to see whether he _deserved_ to get the shit beaten out of him in an alley? Is that it?"

"To get a conviction, juries need to like the victim, or at least be sympathetic towards the victim, Mr. Stoker. If this case goes to trial, I can guarantee you the defense will do everything they can to paint Mr. Gage in a bad light."

"And are you trying to get a head start on that task?" Mike asked, looking calm but sounding deadly.

"No," DeVito said. "I'm trying to get a picture for whether a jury is going to be sympathetic to Mr. Gage or not, and for that, I need to understand his perspective on the events with Ms. Nolan."

"Look," said Johnny, wanting to defuse the situation, "here's what I can tell you. I asked her out, and we went out a couple times. I wasn't dating anyone else at the time. But we didn't exactly hit it off. For one thing, I like to have my privacy, have my space, and she wouldn't let me. I didn't call her any more, but she kept showing up at my place, managing to run into me at the hospital, that sort of thing. She started leaving presents for me—in the hospital, at my apartment, and she showed up at the station a couple times, and stuff like that."

"This was after you broke off the relationship?"

"Yeah, and I kept tellin' her to lay off, but she wouldn't. I finally told her I'd call the cops if she kept showing up at my place or puttin' stuff in the squad while it was parked at the hospital, and she finally got the message."

"And you weren't involved with anyone else at that point?"

"No!" Johnny said, obviously frustrated. "I mean, I probably had some dates during that time, but nothing serious."

"Did she know you dated men as well as women?"

"Are you kidding me?" Johnny said. "_Nobody_ knew that—not then."

DeVito wrote something in his notebook. "Mr. Staib claimed that some time after you broke off the relationship with Ms. Nolan, she discovered that you were, and I quote from his interview last night, 'shacked up with another guy.'"

"It woulda been probably a year and a half later, if she found that out the way everybody else did," Johnny said, "which she probably did if she was still working at Rampart."

"And how _did_ she find out?"

"I don't know for sure—I didn't have any contact with her, of any kind, after I told her I'd call the cops if she didn't quit. And, I know you're gonna ask, so here's the timeline. Six months after I told her that, more or less, is when I got together with Mike. Then a year or so after that, he got hit by a car at an accident scene, and got busted up real bad—woulda died if the paramedics hadn't been right there already—and when he was at Rampart for rehab a month or so after that, I was there too, of course, and people started to put it together, all right? And that was eighteen months ago. Is that enough?" Johnny asked, figuring he knew the answer already.

"A couple more questions. Before Mr. Stoker's accident, I assume it was not common knowledge in your workplace that you two were involved with each other?"

"No," Johnny said. "Not exactly something you'd advertise, right? A couple close friends, is all."

"And you hadn't planned on making your relationship common knowledge?"

Johnny rolled his eyes. "Look. You're a cop. Not such a different line of work from ours. Would you, if you were us? How many gay or bi cops you know who are out?"

"Uh, I really doubt that any of my colleagues are—"

Mike laughed aloud. "Seriously?" He shook his head. "Sorry—go on."

DeVito cleared his throat. "What I'm trying to establish here, Mr. Gage, is whether it was reasonable for Mr. Staib to attribute his sister's mental instability to anything in your treatment of her."

"I'd say, from my experiences with her," Johnny said dryly, "that she seemed pretty mentally unstable already, what with pretty much stalking me. I seriously doubt that finding out I swing both ways would have pushed her over the edge all on its own—that's quite a stretch."

"Let's expand on that point," DeVito said. "You said you 'swing both ways'—does that mean you have interest in both men and women?"

"Yes," Johnny sighed, "that's what that means. I don't see how it's relevant."

"If you'd had no interest in Ms. Nolan, but had used her to, say, cover something up, that would look bad to a jury. Make them less sympathetic to you." DeVito wasn't looking up when he said that, or he would've had his eyes poked out by the needles Mike was shooting at him with his glare.

"Why am I starting to feel like _I'm_ the one on trial here?" Johnny muttered. "This is fucking ridiculous." He wriggled around to try to get into a more comfortable position, but didn't find one that worked.

"Regardless," said DeVito, "let's continue. When you first approached Ms. Nolan, did you ask her out on a date because of genuine interest in her?"

"Yes, though I wish I never had," Johnny said. "No, I never asked a girl out as a cover. That's not the kind of guy I am." He grabbed the couch pillow next to him and hugged it to his chest, bracing his ribs.

"And since you've been involved with Mr. Stoker, have you dated any women?" DeVito asked.

"Hold it," Mike interrupted. He turned to Johnny. "Your ribs okay?"

"Nope, still broken," Johnny said from between clenched teeth. "Let's just get this over with, okay?" He looked back at DeVito. "In answer to your question, no, I have not. Because (a), I don't cheat, and (b), you can ask my coworkers from that time—some of them pestered me constantly about how I must've given up on ever getting a date again. And no, the ones pestering me didn't know I was off the market. That good enough for you? Or do you want names of the guys who were giving me shit? Or would you like the name of every female in L.A. that I _haven't_ gone out with in the last two and a half years?"

"No need to get hostile, Mr. Gage," DeVito said, shifting slightly in his chair. "I just need to establish the facts."

"I have a question, actually," Mike said. "Why do you need to establish these particular facts right now? These guys haven't even been arraigned yet. We don't even know if there's going to be a trial, so why are you worried about this stuff now?"

DeVito put his notebook away, and sighed. "Look. I don't have anything personal against you." Johnny snorted, but DeVito chose to ignore him. "It's just that when my boss looked at this case, one of the first things he said was, these guys aren't gonna be popular victims."

"So, you have to be 'popular' to be protected by the law?" Mike asked, voice completely cool.

"No—the law protects everyone equally," said DeVito.

Johnny scoffed out loud that that statement. "Man, you've never been to a reservation, have you—no, never mind, I don't wanna know. But I get it—what you're sayin' is, a jury's gonna think a couple fags were askin' for it anyhow, right, so why should the DA put much effort into the case?"

"I didn't say that," said DeVito, who was silently wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into here. He hadn't been expecting these guys to be so sharp, based on the transcript of the interview with Stoker last night. Frankly, he'd come across in yesterday's interview as a bit crazy, but seemed perfectly normal today. And—meeting these two in person for the first time was … enlightening. They weren't anything like what he'd imagined. He shifted again in his chair, which was about as comfortable as the ones they put suspects in in the interview room. And then, he looked around the living room, and realized there was no way this was the normal placement for such a chair. His estimate of the intelligence of his victims just rose another notch as he realized how he'd been set up.

"Can I offer a suggestion?" DeVito said.

Johnny raised an eyebrow that he was sure was so loaded with skepticism he was amazed he could lift it, but Mike replied verbally. "We're all ears," he said, arms crossed.

"If this case comes to trial—which it will, unless both the suspects go for a plea bargain—be prepared for questions like I just hit you with, and worse. The defense attorney will try to run you both through the mud. But if you answer him just like you answered me now, but without being as pissed, he won't get far. Okay?"

Johnny and Mike stared back at him, not totally understanding.

DeVito tried again. "I don't blame you for being pissed at my questions, but I had to ask them. But if you're prepared for that, or worse, from the defense attorney, and you can answer them honestly, as you did, and without emotion, which I don't blame you for, you'll paint a good picture for the jury, of a couple of mostly-regular guys who just got handed a lot of shit by a couple of maniacs, all right?"

Mike frowned. "In the courtroom, shouldn't the prosecuting attorney try to quash any irrelevant lines of questioning? Like anything at all about our relationship?"

DeVito shook his head. "It's a game, Mr. Stoker. Both sides play the same game—try to make the jury like their guy better than the other guy. And sometimes the game is played by allowing irrelevant lines of questioning, if your side thinks it will paint a better picture."

"Stupid system," Johnny muttered.

"It certainly comes across that way at times," DeVito said, again trying to adjust himself into a comfortable position in the chair.

"One more question for you," Mike said. "How likely do you think a plea bargain is at this point? I mean, they both confessed to a lot of stuff, right?"

"Hard to say," DeVito said. "I can't say too much about it, but I wouldn't be surprised either way. Right now we're trying to play them off each other. But we won't know till Monday."

"Fair enough," Mike said. "Are we done here?"

"Not … quite." DeVito looked at Mike this time. "Wesley Harris," he said. "Do you work directly with him?"

"I do," Mike said, not sure where DeVito was going with this.

"I'm instructing you not discuss anything about this case with him. You can work with him, but keep your conversation topics off of this case or anything having to do with it," DeVito said.

"Why?" Mike asked.

"I can't say, right now. I just need to tell you that you shouldn't talk with him about the case."

"Okay," Mike said. "I won't. But what if he asks me something? I mean, he did me a huge favor by taking that guy down last night. Seems like he deserves to—"

DeVito interrupted. "He's been instructed not to speak with you about the case either, so that shouldn't be a problem."

"All right!" Mike threw up his hands. "Okay! My lips are zipped."

"Thank you," said DeVito. "And now, unless you have any questions for me, I think we're done." He looked back and forth between Johnny and Mike. "Okay. Someone will be in touch after the arraignment. Please don't get up, Mr. Gage; I'll see myself out."

But Mike walked him to the door. "Johnny will be at home on Monday, and I don't know if I'll be in my office much, so if someone can call here after the arraignment, that would be great."

"We'll do that. Have a good evening."

Mike watched as DeVito walked to his unmarked sedan. He really had no idea whether to hate the guy, or to thank him. He stopped in the kitchen, turned the oven down, and set a time for forty-five minutes. He went back into the living room, and sat down with Johnny again.

"Well, that pretty much sucked," Johnny said. "I just want this to be fucking _done_, Mike."

"I know ya do, babe. So do I."

Mike maneuvered himself to one end of the couch, and propped a large cushion between the armrest and the end table. He positioned himself sideways, with his back against the armrest, and his outside leg off the couch. "C'mere," he said, helping Johnny scoot backwards, so his back rested against Mike's chest and his feet were towards the other arm of the couch. Johnny leaned back into Mike's body, and let out a sigh.

Mike folded his arms around Johnny, making sure to avoid the area of the cracked ribs. He could feel Johnny starting to relax the muscles of his ribcage, starting to breathe normally instead of from his shoulders and upper chest, the way he knew he always did when his broken ribs were bothering him what seemed like decades ago. Johnny put his forearms over Mike's, twining their fingers together on one pair of hands.

"Better?" Mike asked.

"Yeah," Johnny said through a yawn. "It's turnabout day, for sure—me sitting in the dark and brooding, you being the human chair for the guy with busted ribs."

Mike laughed, but gently, so he didn't jar Johnny. "I forgot we called it that, back when you used to do this for me."

"Mm," said Johnny. Mike felt him relax even further, and just held him as he drifted off into sleep. And, seeing and feeling how peaceful Johnny was, Mike wished that a timer was not going to go off in forty-five minutes, because he wanted to sit just the way they were, forever.

TBC


	37. Care and Feeding

**Chapter 37: Care and Feeding**

The kitchen timer clamored annoyingly, the sound of the loud bell echoing frantically off the tiled floor. Mike didn't want to get up, didn't want to move Johnny from the "human chair" Mike had made to support him, but it would be pretty embarrassing to set their kitchen on fire by ignoring the casserole. And it would be pretty necessary to have an edible dinner ready, and soon. So, Mike started gently extricating himself from behind Johnny so he could go tend to dinner. He sat Johnny upright, being sure not to hold him near his cracked ribs. At the same time, pulled his own inside leg behind Johnny, and squeezed himself off the couch. Amazingly, Johnny slept through not only the timer, but also the entire series of contortions Mike went through to get off the couch.

Mike let Johnny back down gently onto the sofa, shaking his head at the man's ability to sleep through anything, and headed to the kitchen. The casserole was indeed ready, and not a second too soon, as Mike suddenly noticed he was absolutely famished. Mike threw together a salad to go with Mrs. Stanley's chicken and rice casserole, and served himself up a portion of each. He felt mildly guilty about not waiting for Johnny, but knew that no offense would be taken. He quietly ate his supper, while reading a magazine that had been sitting on his pile of mail for the entire week. Things had been so stressful and chaotic that it felt like a vacation to be sitting at his own table, eating a meal in peace and quiet, and not having to worry about when the next "incident" would occur. He even remembered his antibiotics, washing down a tablet with a glass of water once he was done with his meal.

As he finished, he heard rustling from the living room, and then Johnny appeared behind him, putting his hands lightly on Mike's shoulders.

"Hey," Johnny said.

"Hi—sorry I didn't wait, but I figured it wouldn't do either of us any good if I passed out from hunger. You want some of this? It's good."

"Sure—I'll get it," Johnny said, moving towards the kitchen.

"Hold it, babe. Remember? Total rest."

Johnny opened his mouth, as if he were about to protest that it wasn't a big deal just to go to the kitchen and put food on a plate, but wisely closed his mouth and sat down. "Okay. Thanks."

Mike served him up a plate of food, and brought a glass of milk over as well.

"Thanks," Johnny said again, as Mike put everything down on the table and returned to his seat, across from Johnny.

Mike watched Johnny eat for a minute or two. He'd found over the years that he could tell a lot about what was going on inside Johnny's head from how he dealt with his food. He wasn't wolfing his food down, but he also wasn't picking at it, or rearranging it, or making patterns on his plate—he was just eating. But he also wasn't talking.

Mike was never uncomfortable with silence—sometimes, people just didn't feel like talking, and that was more than fine with him. Mike's guess about Johnny's current silence was that he was just plain talked out. The interview with DeVito had been miserable, for both of them, but Johnny's private life had been badly violated by DeVito's lines of questioning. So, although Mike knew the topic needed to come up again, this particular moment was not the right time. He picked a safer and more uplifting topic.

"You chatted with Marco for a while before he left, huh?"

Johnny brightened a bit, and looked up. "Yeah. It was good. I mean, he's not comfortable, but he's not gonna ignore us any more either. He, uh, apologized for only being around for the hard times, and said that's not how he wants it to be anymore. I thought that was a good way to put it. Also, and I kinda don't feel great about this, but what choice did we have? He was upset about how we hadn't said anything direct to him, you know, about us, before your accident. I guess he thought we'd actually told Cap, and Roy, and Chet—but I explained to him that we didn't actually _tell_ anyone." Johnny took a gargantuan bite, and started chewing.

Mike nodded. "Yeah. I know. I thought a lot about that, especially once right after he visited when I was at Henry Mayo. It must not have been the first time he visited—I don't think I really remember anything from that first week, and I know all the guys from 93s and 51s came at some point that week. It's all kind of foggy, but I remember he was kind of upset that he didn't know, but also kind of said something weird about how he wished he didn't know. It was … uncomfortable for both of us. I was kind of surprised he came back."

Johnny finished chewing, and swallowed. He took a gulp of milk, and put his glass back down on the table. "Yeah. That's pretty much what he was telling me this afternoon. I guess part of the problem was he thought that everyone from our original crew except him knew way before he did. I mean, Cap and Roy did, but I think he felt a little better when I explained that Chet probably found out a few minutes before he did. And I guess some of the hard feelings on his part come from the three of us never really being comfortable with sitting down and talking about 'It' with him."

"I guess it was another one of those things with no perfect solution," Mike said.

"I know how much you love things like that," Johnny said, grinning.

Mike shot Johnny the finger, and Johnny retaliated by chucking a wadded-up paper napkin at him.

Johnny took another bite, and talked while he chewed. "DeVito sure pissed me off. That bullshit about 'my type' and whether I was just using girls to cover my tracks—" he shook his head. "None of his damned business, even if I was, which I wasn't. And hell, the whole 'type' thing—I don't even think I _am_ a type. And I _hate_ it when people try to figure me out—figure out which box to put me in, so everything can be all neatly arranged."

"I know you do," Mike said quietly. "But here's what I think. I think he's a good cop. I think he wants those guys to go down, and I think he's trying, in his own clumsy way, to help us out."

"Clumsy is right," Johnny said. "Man, I wanted to pop him right in the nose a couple times. The whole thing seemed like it was starting to smell like 'the victims asked for it,' ya know?"

Mike nodded. "And that was his point—that's a card that the defense attorney is surely going to play, right? It's a dirty card, but we'll be ready for it."

Johnny pushed some food around on his plate. "Yeah. Well, I'm just gonna keep my fingers crossed that there's not gonna be a trial. Not cause I want them to get away with shit—I don't, and I'll do my part in court if it comes to that. But I'll say it for the millionth time—I just want this all to be done. So let's just hope these shitheads plead guilty tomorrow, or whatever the hell they have to do to just have this mess be over."

"Yeah. Me too, babe." Mike stood up and pushed his chair away from the table. "And now, ya know what? I think we oughta lay around on the couch, and watch some stupid TV—no cop shows, either—and bitch about how all the shows really suck. And we can make popcorn, and drink beer, and belch, and just be total idiots for the rest of the weekend. Because I'm sick to death of being a responsible adult."

Johnny grinned, and handed Mike his plate. "I love it when you pretend you're a loser."

"Yeah?" Mike turned to look back at Johnny.

"Yeah—it's hot. Can we make out during the commercials?

"No," Mike said matter-of-factly, putting the plates in the sink and turning on the water.

"Um," said Johnny, "did you just say 'no?'"

"Yeah. You're still working on _regular_ breathing, right? So—_heavy_ breathing? Nuh-uh."

"You're no fun," Johnny complained.

Mike picked the receiver up off the phone in the kitchen. "Should we call Dr. Brackett, right now, and see if it's okay if you—"

Johnny laughed, and wasn't able to avoid a tell-tale clutch at his ribcage. "All right, all right. I guess it'd be hard to explain at my follow-up on Monday why everything looked worse instead of better. Ya see, Doc, it's like this: I just couldn't keep my hands off my hot boyfriend, because he was pretending to be a loser, which is really sexy—and one thing led to another, and …"

"You see?" Mike replaced the receiver. "I'm perfectly reasonable."

"As always, Stoker. As always. C'mon. It's almost eight o'clock—I'm sure something dumb is starting on the idiot box by now."

Mike finished cleaning up the kitchen, and he and Johnny retired to the living room. There were, as they had imagined, any number of horrible shows on television that evening, so they had no difficulty in finding something completely mindless to occupy themselves until bedtime.

Nine o'clock rolled around, and both Mike and Johnny found themselves flagging.

"Man, I've been sleepin' half the day, and I'm already beat again," Johnny remarked, stifling a yawn.

"I'm completely wiped out too. Guess I'm still catching up after this stupid week. I hope I can actually get to sleep. Whaddaya think," Mike asked. "Should I go straight for one of Dr. Early's magic pills, or see what happens?"

"Uh, what magic pills?" Johnny asked. "I know he gave you more antibiotics, but did he prescribe you something else, too?"

"Oh. I guess I forgot to tell you about that part," Mike said uncomfortably. "When you were on shift the other night, and then when you were in the hospital, I, uh, wasn't sleeping well. Kind of not really at all, actually. And that's kind of what started me on the whole caffeine OD, and so he gave me just a couple pills, just for a couple nights, to break the cycle. I don't even know if I need it or not. I don't really like the idea, but …"

"Huh. Maybe _that_ was why it was so hard to wake you up this morning. You take one last night?"

"You better believe it—after a few gallons of coffee, and then a little parking lot assault, and then three hours with the cops? I was wound tighter than a … a … I don't know—name something really tight."

"Chief Livingston's ass?" Johnny suggested.

Mike grimaced, and pretended to shudder. "Now _there's_ an image I didn't need. So yeah, I took one last night. Maybe I can skip it tonight, though."

"How 'bout this," Johnny suggested. "We turn in, and if you're not asleep after what, twenty minutes? Get up and take it. But I'll bet you won't have to."

"I'll bet not, either. We're back in our own house, and you're here, and those assholes are sleeping in jail tonight—nope. Not gonna be a problem."

And he was right.

~!~!~!~!~

Sunday passed in much the same way as Saturday evening had. Mike was starting to feel more like himself, and his temperature was nearly down to normal. Johnny was still dutifully following the prescription of serious rest, much to Mike's relief. He was not only truly and voluntarily resting, and not trying to do things he wasn't supposed to do, but he readily asked Mike for help when he needed something.

Mike took care of the household chores, including finally wet-mopping the entire living room area to pick up any last shards of glass. He went grocery shopping, and managed to get in touch with a window repair business that could come the next afternoon to replace the large front window. He arranged with Mrs. Daniels to let them in when they arrived.

Mike had already decided he'd take Monday afternoon off—he'd go into the office in the morning, and then get to his follow-up with Dr. Hansen, which was conveniently scheduled for around the same time as Johnny's follow-up visit, where they would just be taking a blood and urine sample anyhow. Mike was amused to hear Johnny's story about making his followup appointment. He'd joked that the way things were looking, they could probably do both tests with just his urine, but his joke earned only a stern glare from the discharge nurse.

The question was, though, what Johnny should do between when Mike had to be at the office, and when their appointments were. It made no sense for Mike to come all the way back to the house for Johnny, but there was also no good place for Johnny to relax while Mike was at work in the morning.

"The library," Johnny finally announced. "I can just hang around in the library at HQ. Heck, I wouldn't be the first guy on medical leave to hang out there for a while, I'm sure, just to have something to do."

"Yeah, but you might be the first guy who's hanging out there because his boyfriend is busy upstairs."

For the umpteenth time, Johnny wished there were a better word for their relationship. "Boyfriend" sounded so juvenile, "partner" was so formal and stilted, and its more typical business-like meaning was relevant in Johnny's life too. He had to face it—it wasn't ever going to be comfortable to use the same word for the relationship he and Mike and, as he did for the work relationship that firefighters or paramedics working together had. "Spouse" was again too formal, and "husband" just plain seemed wrong. Everything else was right out. So they were stuck with "boyfriend," even though they both disliked the word. When people asked what the right word was, Mike would say "partner," but that wasn't the word they used between themselves.

"Hey, Mike?" Johnny asked, as they were ironing out their plans.

"Uh huh?"

"Could I see your office? Just kinda peek in, first thing?"

Mike was surprised by this request. They had a firm rule, which they both thought was for the best, that they not be seen together at department headquarters. But, considering the topics of Johnny's brooding the day before, Mike realized Johnny's request represented an important shift in his perception of their relationship, and an acknowledgment of the reality that people _did_ actually know about them.

"I think that would be great," Mike said.

"Good," said Johnny. "I mean, hardly anybody'll be there anyhow at the hour that you like to get in. So I can just peek in, and then head down to the library."

"Yeah," Mike said. "Okay. Let's do that."

~!~!~!~!~

Monday, 0730

"I don't think I've ever been above the third floor in this joint," Johnny said, as he and Mike exited the elevator on the sixth floor of the L.A. County Fire Department headquarters building.

"Believe me, it's real exciting up here," said Mike, as he led the way down the hallway to his office. He opened the door, and showed Johnny in. "It's small," he said, as he and Johnny entered, "but it's all mine."

"Small?" Johnny laughed. "I mean, you've seen the office at 93s, right? And I share that with Jeff and Len, too, so I can't even leave a mess on the desk! Man, this is great!" Johnny wandered around and looked at the pictures on the walls. He knew Mike had had enlargements made of several nature photographs Johnny had taken, and he knew they were for this office, but still, seeing them on the walls gave him a warm glow.

Mike started to feel tense as Johnny made his way to the desk. Mike had impulsively decided to leave his pictures of Johnny out on the desk after his verbal explosion at Wes Harris on Friday, but he'd planned to rearrange the office furniture so that the desk was facing outwards and people would see the backs of the frames unless they actually went behind the desk. He wasn't sure what Johnny would think of a somewhat public display of himself, so he held his breath as Johnny got to the desk.

Johnny stopped just behind the desk. "I, uh, didn't know you had these in your office," he said.

"I've always had them here. But until Friday, they were in my top drawer, like this." Mike sat at the desk and demonstrated. "I, uh, kind of left them out when I freaked out on Wes Harris on Friday, and then kind of thought about maybe leaving them out. I dunno, what do you think? I was gonna turn the desk this morning, to face the door, so I could see who was coming in, and so everything would be a little less public. Roy suggested that, actually. But I can put them back in the drawer if you want. It's up to you."

Johnny hesitated. Mike could see tension in his neck, his shoulders.

"I dunno, Mikey. I mean, it kinda seems like it'd be rocking the boat. Ya know? I just … it's not what you were thinkin' before—I'm not ashamed of us. It's just …"

"I know. It's kind of asking for more trouble, when we've just had a whole viper's nest of it." Mike sighed. "I guess you go back in the drawer, then, at least for the time being."

Johnny exhaled, and ran a hand through his hair. Mike could see some of the tension leaving Johnny's upper body. "Yeah. Okay. Sorry to make a big deal of it—I just think it's … not time for that yet."

"It's not a big deal. I sure wish I didn't have to keep you in a drawer, but I see where you're coming from. Roy said pretty much the same thing, oh-so-diplomatically, and it's not even him sitting up there on the desk."

Mike put the photos back in their original discreet location, and then looked around the room. "But you know, I think I'll still rearrange. I hate having my door completely closed, but people are always startling me without meaning to. If I face the door, that won't happen. I'll just shove the desk over here, like this—" Mike grabbed the edge of the desk and started to try to turn it.

He gave the desk a good tug, but the solid 1950's-era oak desk on top of modern industrial carpeting refused to yield to just one man's strength and weight. Johnny stood by uncomfortably, wanting to help but knowing it was completely unreasonable to try.

"Shit, that's heavy," Mike said after a few seconds of fruitless straining. "I guess I'll wait till Harris or someone else shows up around here to move this sucker."

As if the universe was listening to Mike, and trying to make up for the last ten days, there was a knock at his office door. "Hey, Stoker, you in there?"

Mike grinned. "Hey, Bert! C'mon in!"

Bert came in and stopped short. "Oh—good morning. Sorry, I didn't know you had company. I can come back later." He squinted slightly at Johnny, and his eyes darted briefly to the Station 51 picture.

"Nah, we're just finishing up. Johnny, this is Bert Saunders; we were at 14s together waaaaay back when I was a probie. He's head of maintenance for HQ now. Bert, John Gage."

Johnny shot Mike a raised eyebrow when there was no more to the introduction, but recovered quickly. "Nice ta meet ya," said Johnny, shaking Bert's hand. "I heard you worked wonders on all the crap that got pulled on Mike up here. Great trick with the door, just replacing it like that."

"Well, like I said to Stoker here, in a building this size, we gotta spare for just about everything. Anyhow, Stoker—just came up to check on you—you were lookin' a little rough when I saw you on Saturday."

"Yeah—I was pretty wiped out from all the bullshit with the cops and those guys, and sick as a dog to boot. But—the assholes are in jail, and the antibiotics seem to be vanquishing the bacteria, so things are starting to look up a bit. Thanks for checking in—because really, it could've gone either way."

"You're welcome. Glad you're doing better," said Bert.

"Say, while you're up here, could you give me a hand moving this desk? I just want to swing it around like that—" Mike gestured the intended movement— "so I can face the door and not constantly get the shit startled out of me."

Johnny felt he had to provide an excuse. "I'd help out, but I've got three cracked ribs."

Bert winced. "Man, those have to smart. How'd you do that?"

Johnny looked at Mike, and Mike nodded. "Uh, those same guys who trashed the office door caught up with me in an alley and did some damage. Spent a couple days at Rampart." Johnny squirmed inwardly; he disliked talking about the incident, but it was clear that Bert was sympathetic.

"Holy fuck." Bert shook his head. "Man, I hope they put those guys away for a long, long time. I know you still can't say who they were, or anything, but it pisses me off to no end that people from the department—from the _department!_—would behave like that." His asymmetrical glower was somehow even more intense than if he'd had the ability to move his entire face equally—perhaps because of the stark contrast between the immobile side and the expressive side.

Bert shook his head again. "Damn. Makes me ill. But anyhow—let's move this desk. You sure that's okay on your leg, Mike? 'Cause I could get another guy from downstairs."

Mike took his place on one side of the desk. "Nah, it's fine. I probably shouldn't go for a run, but giving a desk a good shove should be fine."

"All right, then." Bert took the other side of the desk, and they moved it into the position that Mike wanted.

"Great," Mike said, rubbing his hands where the edge of the desk had bitten into them. "Thanks a lot, Bert. Once again, you saved the day."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Bert chuckled. "You woulda found someone, eventually. Just not at 0730. Anyhow—I gotta get to it. And, lemme know what happens with those bastards, will ya?"

"I will. Thanks again, Bert."

"Nice to meet you, Bert," said Johnny. "Thanks for your help."

"Hey, good meetin' you too. Take it easy on those ribs, and they'll be right as rain in a couple weeks."

"Will do."

After Bert left, Mike shoved a couple smaller pieces of furniture around until he was satisfied with the arrangement. Johnny watched silently, feeling guilty that he couldn't help out. He mulled over what Bert had said—his indignation, and the genuine anger at the criminals.

"Hey Mikey?"

"Uh huh?" Mike said, moving some things around on his newly placed desk. He pulled a spare chair over to the desk for Johnny, and they both sat down.

"He knows about us, doesn't he."

Mike looked up. "Yeah, babe, he does. That first day—when my door got painted—well, he misunderstood."

Johnny cocked his head. "Huh? I thought you said they painted 'faggot' on the door—that's pretty clear, I'd say."

"Yeah, well, I kinda asked him to keep it quiet, and said something about how I'd figured something like this would happen someday—you know, 'cause someone at HQ would figure out I was gay. I'm not really sure why I said that—I guess because I just really didn't feel like trying to fake like it wasn't true. And he was still confused—he looked at my ring, and so I explained that the matching one belonged to another man, and then he got it. And then we had quite an interesting chat about how other people react to people who aren't like everyone else, and I knew he was gonna be all right with everything."

"How'd he know it was _me_, though?" Johnny asked. "I mean, I guess I don't mind, 'cause he's all right, you know. But how'd it come up?"

"Oh, well, here's a lovely thing that happens around here. Sometimes, people who've heard the rumors? When they're here, in the office, they just love to look at my station pictures—you know, to try to figure out which one is 'him.' Bert was there—kind of invisibly working on fixing the door—and saw the guy quizzing me, trying and failing to be subtle about figuring out which one was 'him,' and asked me about what was going on. And I made some kind of remark about how nobody ever bothers to just ask me which one is 'him.' So later, he asked—in a nice way, like he really cared. So I showed him."

Johnny didn't say anything for a few seconds. Mike felt his heart rate rising, and watched Johnny for signs of shut-down or anger. None appeared.

"I guess," Johnny said slowly, "I never realized how it'd be a lot harder at work for you than for me."

Mike tilted his head. "_What_ would be harder? I'm not sure what you mean."

"The whole keeping the open secret thing. I mean, when you were in the hospital, everyone from all the shifts at 93s came by at one point or another—and they're who I work with now. So everyone I work with on a daily basis already knows what there is to know. And sure—there's assholes like Livingston to contend with, but I just stay out of his way and things are fine. But for you?" Johnny shook his head. "Doesn't work that way, does it?"

Mike shook his head minutely. "No. It's like there's this unwritten rule: they don't ask me, and I don't volunteer information. But I think I can usually tell who's heard rumors and who hasn't, just from how they react when they meet me. So, I was actually kind of pleased when Bert stepped outside of that invisible box, and expressed interest. I don't think for a second that he's perfectly comfortable with all this, but he said it himself—there are people who make others uncomfortable because of something about them, and he's one, and I'm one."

"Huh," Johnny said.

They sat together behind Mike's desk, and Johnny watched as Mike put the pictures back in the drawer, adjusting the brackets on the backs of the frames to set them at a good viewing angle.

"There you are," Mike said, "back in your drawer."

"You're in my locker, you know."

"Yeah?" Mike smiled. "Which pictures?"

"Well, that one, of course," Johnny said, pointing to the picture taken just after they'd stood in front of their friends, the day after they'd exchanged rings, to tell their friends how their lives had changed. "And the one where you're shooting me the finger for taking your picture when you're all sweaty from mowing the lawn. And the funny thing is—the other two are from the same days as your other two. That same day at the beach—the picture I've got is you holding that huge horseshoe crab up by its tail. And then the one from that newspaper photographer. He only got the one of you, I think."

"The one where I'm in the driver's seat, talking on the radio, and my arm's out the window?"

"Yep—that's the one."

"That's not that great of a picture, I didn't think," said Mike. "It's pretty boring."

"Ya know why I like it?" Johnny executed a grin that encroached on the 'leer' end of the smile spectrum.

"No, but I'd sure like to."

"Your _hands_, man. C'mon, you _know_ I've got a thing for your hands. And it's like they're the centerpiece of the photo. It's almost like he meant it that way."

There was a knock at the door.

"I should probably go, huh?" said Johnny.

"Come in," Mike called, at nearly the same time.

Wes Harris walked in, looking pale and tired.

"Wes!" Mike said. "Hey, come on in. You all right?"

Wes stood in front of Mike's desk, and looked back and forth between Johnny and Mike. He didn't say anything, just stood there with his mouth slightly open and his eyes wild. He stared at Johnny's impressive black eye.

Johnny looked over at Mike. "I really oughta get going, right?"

"Hang on," Mike said. "Wes?"

"Uh," Wes said intelligently.

"You probably haven't met Johnny," Mike continued, wondering what the hell was going on with Harris. "Wes Harris, John Gage. Johnny, Wes is the one who took Staib down in the parking lot on Friday night."

"Wow, man—we owe you one, big time," Johnny said, assuming Harris probably also knew he was Mike's boyfriend. "If it weren't for you, Mike might be in pieces by now. That guy is seriously dangerous. So thanks a lot, Harris."

"Uh," Wes said again, still staring at Johnny. He took in Johnny's slightly hunched-over posture, and his eyes traveled up and down Johnny's lanky frame, as if trying to divine what other damage was present.

"You okay, Wes?" Mike asked. "I don't know about you, but I had a pretty uncomfortable time with the cops on Friday night. They treat you all right?"

"Um … yeah, they were fine, all things considered," Wes replied after a long pause.

Mike frowned. "Wait a second—they didn't give you a hard time because you _tackled_ that piece of shit, did they? Because he really needed to be tackled, and I sure told them that. Man, I was totally freaked out when they pulled that switchblade out of his pocket."

Wes looked at the floor. "No—they, uh, kind of understood the tackling thing."

Mike tilted his head. "That kind of sounds like there was another part they _didn't_ understand."

"Yeah. Uh, did they tell you not to talk with me about the case?"

"They did," Mike confirmed.

"Me, too. But, the thing is, I just have to apologize, to both of you, all right? It's stupid, because I can't tell you what I'm apologizing for, but—I screwed up, a while ago, and—and—and that messed things up for you, and I'm sorry." Wes looked back and forth from Mike to Johnny, his eyes finally settling on Mike's desk.

"Okay …" Mike said, his rising intonation and eyebrows betraying his curiosity. "We're not talking about the case, so I can't ask you what the hell you mean, but I can't imagine what you had to do with any of—"

Wes cut him off. "Look—just … don't ask me anything, okay? I'll, uh, try to tell you sometime, when I'm allowed, but—damn, this is so lame—for now I just have to apologize so I can sleep at night, okay?"

"Okay," Mike said. "That's fine, Wes," he continued, carefully neither accepting nor rejecting the apology.

"Okay. Good. I, uh, oughta get to work," Wes said, effectively ending the conversation.

"All right," Mike said, not protesting. "Say, do you know if Rhodes is in yet?"

Wes nodded, glad to have a safe topic. "Yeah—I ran into him on my way in. Almost forgot—he said he wants to see you."

"That's handy, because I have to go see him anyhow, and now I have an excuse," Mike said.

"Yeah—he's weird about people just showing up. Anyhow—uh, see you later Stoker." He looked back at Johnny. "Gage—I, uh, hope you're feeling better. Nice to meet you." And without a second glance, Wes flew out the door.

Johnny looked at Mike incredulously. "_That's_ the guy you work with all the time? He seems like a total nut job!"

Mike frowned, shaking his head. "He's not usually like that at all. That apology thing? That was … mysterious. I mean, he's usually a bit, I don't know, I guess 'abrasive' would be a good word. And, well, I told you about my freak-out with him on Friday, so I was expecting an awkward chat of some kind today, but not … whatever _that_ was."

"Yeah—that was kind of weird," Johnny said. "Look—I oughta go down to the library, right? Let you get on with your day."

"What, you mean before someone even more insane comes barging through my door? I swear, it's not usually like this—it's usually really boring around here."

Johnny laughed. "I believe you—but still, I'm gonna head downstairs."

"Can't say that I blame you," Mike said. "So I'll come get you at like 11:30, and we can grab a quick lunch at Rampart before our appointments."

"Sounds good. Maybe I'll read some arson stuff."

"Hmm." Mike scribbled a title on a notepad, ripped the top sheet off, and handed it to Johnny. "That's a good one to start with. Won't put you to sleep, but also isn't too dumbed down."

"'kay."

Mike looked at the door. "You wanna close that for a second?"

Johnny peered out into the hallway, which was empty, and closed the door. He immediately found himself on the receiving end of what he was sure was the chastest kiss ever in the history of their relationship. He unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a laugh, and ended up snorting instead.

"Yeah, well, I didn't think that was too bad, for the office," Mike said, scowling.

Johnny wiped the scowl off Mike's face by returning the kiss, equally chastely. "See ya later, Stoker," he said, opening the door and disappearing down the hallway.

Mike gave him a good head start, idly rearranging the items on his desk, and then, when he was sure to catch a separate elevator, headed downstairs to see what Rhodes had lined up for him.

Mike knocked on Rhodes' door, and was immediately summoned in. Rhodes was holding a thick sheaf of paper—at least twenty-five typed pages, bound at the corner with a heavy-duty staple.

"Stoker," said Rhodes. "Have a seat. I just looked over your brief—good job. Sorry you had to stay late, but you were definitely the one for the job."

"Uh, yessir," Mike said. "Glad it came out all right."

Rhodes looked at another piece of paper. "The typing lady even thanked me for having you do this—I guess they get a lot of crappy-looking stuff, 'cause she wrote me a note that it was much easier to type your stuff than anyone else's in the unit. She said you even came by on Saturday to make sure everything was okay."

Mike, uncomfortable with anything resembling praise, squirmed slightly in his chair. "I kind of had to be here to get my vehicle anyhow," he said, and instantly regretted bringing up the topic.

"What, your truck? What happened?" Rhodes squinted at him, and barged on. "Say … I heard something about a bust-up in the parking lot. You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?"

"Well, some jackass slashed my tires, is all," Mike said evasively. "I, uh, couldn't deal with it that night, so I had the thing towed on Saturday."

His answer seemed to satisfy Rhodes. "Anyhow—the reward for a job well done is another job to do well." He handed Mike a packet of papers. "Here's your next assignment—it's a fatal from up in the far northeastern part of the county. Monday night of last week. Bruneau and Panella went out to the scene the next morning. No suspicion of arson, and they think the cause was electrical, but you know the drill—we have to report a cause on any fatal incident. Bruneau and Panella did fine work at the scene, but their reports stink, as usual, so, anything you can do to clean them up would be appreciated."

Mike skimmed the initial incident report with a sinking feeling. He could tell from looking at the first page that it was the house fire Johnny's crew had worked, where Emerson had to deal with his first child fatality. "Uh, boss, I … don't know if I should do this one."

Rhodes frowned. "Why not?"

Mike paused, not sure how much to say. "I've already heard a bit about the incident, and I'm, uh, well acquainted with the Captain of one of the stations that responded."

Rhodes drummed his fingers on his desk. "Yeah … you used to work up in that neck of the woods, right? I see—was there a crew from your old station? I don't see why _that_ would be a problem—I mean, we all have ties to our old stations, and nobody ever has a problem with that."

Mike sighed heavily. "Maybe I should have said, um, _extremely_ well acquainted."

Rhodes glared impatiently at Mike. "What's with the secret code? So _what_ if—" he cut himself off abruptly, and his jaw dropped slightly and closed again. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Rhodes folded his arms, and echoed Mike's sigh. "Jesus. All right, I don't want a name, but what station, and what shift, just so this doesn't happen again."

"Station 93, C-shift." Mike felt himself getting lower in his chair, as if he were physically shrinking.

"Fine," Rhodes said curtly. "I'll give it to Harris, even though he looked like crap this morning. I suppose it's only fair, since I dumped that project on you on Friday, and you obviously weren't well."

"Sorry," Mike said, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for. "Uh, about that—I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon, so I'm gonna have to be out. It's for the leg again."

"Fine," Rhodes said again. "Other than the thing you can't work on, I got nothin', so just go. Don't bother with sick time—you were here half the night on Friday, and we're not busy, so it's not worth the paperwork."

Mike sat up straighter in his chair, recognizing the gesture for a sort of peace offering. "Thanks, Boss. And—well, sorry about the other thing."

Rhodes waved a hand through the air. He rose from his desk and consulted the large Operations Department map on the back wall of his office. "Best not to have any hint of conflict of interest. I just won't give you any assignments in the territories of say, Battalions 11 and 17, and that should cover it, right?"

Mike looked at the map as well. "Yeah. That should do it. I don't think 93s ever gets anything outside those areas. I'll ask him to let me know if and when he ever does, just so we can keep things on the up-and-up."

"Let me know if, ah, anything changes, with respect to shifts and stations and whatnot," Rhodes said, resorting to code himself to avoid using frank language.

"Will do," Mike agreed. "And—I should be fine for the rest of the week. I'm feeling a lot better, so I don't think they'll need me to come back for another appointment any time soon."

"Good," said Rhodes, ushering Mike out. "Come see me first thing tomorrow—I'm sure I'll have something for you then."

"All right," said Mike. "And—thanks for this afternoon, and sorry about, you know."

Rhodes opened the door. "Good thing you said," he stated, "so it didn't get screwed up."

Mike restrained himself from rolling his eyes at Rhodes' own use of 'secret code' rather than plain language. He returned to his office, and busied himself with reading a journal article he'd photocopied the previous week. Nobody else visited his office, and his phone didn't ring all morning, which was fine by him. At eleven thirty, he tidied his already-neat desk, and went down to the library. Johnny was leaning on the wall outside the library door, with a couple books under his arm.

"A little light reading?" Mike said, reaching out and taking the heavy-looking tomes from Johnny.

"Yeah. Gotta have something to do, ya know," he said, as they walked down the first-floor corridor to the lobby. "Makes me crazy—probably two more weeks with these ribs," he complained.

"You know," Mike said, as they exited the building, "you're moving a lot easier today than even on Saturday. I think your strategy of sleeping it off must be working."

"It's not exactly a strategy," Johnny said as he heaved himself into the passenger's side of Mike's truck. "It's more like, I can't help it."

True to his word, Johnny nodded off on the short trip to Rampart. Mike dropped Johnny off at the front door, and then parked the truck and and met him there. They headed to the cafeteria, which was crowded at lunch time. Johnny's black eye continued to draw stares, which he mostly ignored. He and Mike both suppressed snickers when a boy of about five loudly told his mother that "that man drawed on hisself with markers just like me. But he shouldn't do it on his eye."

"So where should we meet after my appointment?" Mike asked Johnny, whose appointment was the earlier of the two, and would also most likely be shorter, since he was just leaving samples.

"I dunno—I might go check out the ER, see who's down there. I guess look for me in the staff lounge. If it's crazy or if none of my old friends are down there, I guess I'll sit in the lobby."

"Okay—I'll check the ER lounge first, then the lobby if you're not there. I honestly don't know how long this will take—though I'm imagining not too long, since I'm really feeling just fine, and I hardly even notice where that screw was," Mike said. "I'm still annoyed I had to start thinking about it again. I'd honestly started to forget about all that metal, and now it's fresh in my mind again."

"Yeah—I know. Remember that gas explosion, where I busted up my right leg?" Johnny said, as they headed to the elevator.

Mike shuddered. "Yeah—that was, uh, pretty hard to forget. You know, all four of the rest of us had to hold you down while Roy was splinting you."

Johnny shook his head. "I'm happy to say I'll probably never remember any of that. But anyhow, it wasn't even two years after that when the drunk hit me after that bullshit call with the lady in the bar, and I'd just started not thinking about favoring that leg when it got busted again. I mean, it was nothing like the first break—just a minor fracture, really—but it really got me thinking about the original injury again, which really freaked me out. So I guess maybe I know what you mean. It stinks—but I'll bet you a buck that in another six months you'll forget about it again."

"Bet me something more interesting, and maybe I'll take you up on that," Mike deadpanned, as the elevator arrived.

They had the elevator to themselves. "Oooh—you're on! I'll think of something super good while I'm waiting for my appointment," Johnny said, giving Mike an exaggerated leer.

"Sometimes I really think you're stuck at seventeen years old."

They parted ways when the elevator dropped Johnny on the third floor, and Mike continued on to the fifth, where the orthopedist's office was. He went to the receptionist's window.

"Hi—Mike Stoker, for one thirty. I know I'm kind of early, but I'll just wait."

The receptionist checked her list. "Actually, today is your lucky day, Mr. Stoker—the patient before you just canceled, so we can just bump you up. Have a seat—it won't be long at all."

"Great—thanks," Mike said. Good luck still felt odd to him after the recent turmoil, but he didn't complain.

After a short wait, the nurse called him back to the exam room.

"Let's see," she said. "We're just looking at your progress with the bone infection today. Your last x-ray was nine days ago; the doctor said he doesn't need another one now."

"Um," Mike said, "it's probably worth mentioning that I kind of forgot to take the antibiotics until Friday, and I got pretty sick."

"Oh?" The nurse looked at him disapprovingly. "Well, that might change things. How are you feeling now?"

"A lot better," Mike said truthfully. "I had a bit of a fever still yesterday morning, but not today."

"All right," said the nurse. "Let me just get your vitals and your temperature, and then the doctor will be in to see you. You can put this on after I'm done here. He just needs to be able to get at your knee, so you can leave everything on but the pants," the nurse said, handing him a gown. She got a blood pressure reading, which made her frown again, but seemed satisfied with the reading from the thermometer. She exited the room, leaving Mike to put the gown on and to brood again on the stupidity of forgetting to take the antibiotics. He mentally rehearsed the speech he'd prepared about why he forgot his medication.

There was a quick knock at the door, and Dr. Hansen came in.

"So—what's this I hear about not taking the antibiotics?" he said without preamble.

"I know, I know—it was really stupid. But I had a terrible week—someone vandalized my house, and I had a family member assaulted to the point of hospitalization, and I just plain forgot," Mike said.

"Oh my," said Dr. Hansen. "I suppose that might account for your blood pressure being a bit elevated—it's 145/90, which is higher than I like to see. You should follow up with your regular doctor about that."

"I can get it checked at home some time when I'm not stressed out. Would that be a good start?"

"Ah yes," said Hansen. "Your paramedic friend who was there last weekend. Yes," he said, "that would be a good idea." He pored over Mike's chart, and then closed the folder. "Let's have a look at that knee," he said. He probed the area around the lower screws, and Mike was relieved that it didn't cause the cold, sharp pain it had just on Friday.

"Still a little tender," Mike said, "but nothing like Friday, when I got the stitches out. I think my temperature was about a hundred and one, and I felt like crap, but I thought at the time it was just from not sleeping and from all the stress."

"That certainly could have contributed, but what I'm concerned about is the possibility of a lingering infection at the site of the screws. I want to take another set of x-rays today, to compare to last weekend's, just to make sure nothing looks worse. What can happen is that the white blood cells that attack the infection release an enzyme that breaks the bone down. I'll be able to see on the x-ray whether that looks like it's happening."

Mike got pale. "What if it is?"

"Well, first of all, the good news is that I cultured the bacteria that came off the screw I removed last weekend, and the antibiotics you've been given should take care of that infection. As long as you actually _take_ them, that is. So let's just look at the pictures first, before we get into anything else, all right?" Dr. Hansen said.

"Okay," Mike said weakly.

The technician made quick work of taking the ordered pictures, and Dr. Hansen returned to the exam room after about fifteen minutes, holding the new and the old x-rays.

"Good news," he said right off the bat. "Nothing looks different at all."

Mike heaved a huge sigh of relief. "Boy, Doc, I can't tell you what a relief that is. This week has been—well, unbelievable."

"It looks like your own immune system must be pretty strong, since you already had an infection brewing in there for some time. It may actually have been a lucky accident that you jarred that screw loose when you did—it might have allowed us to catch the infection early enough that you didn't develop major complications."

"So what now?" Mike asked.

"Finish the antibiotics—actually, I'm going to write you a prescription for a slightly higher dosage, and a longer course, just to be on the safe side. Get the prescription filled as soon as you can, and then throw out the old ones and take the new ones until they're gone. And I want to see you again in six weeks, for another set of x-rays. At that point, the infection should be completely gone."

"All right," said Mike. "Since it's feeling better, can I go back to all my regular activities?"

"Sure—just use your discretion. If it hurts, don't do it."

"Good advice in general," Mike said.

"True. I'll see you in six weeks," Hansen said.

Mike changed back into his pants, put the prescription in his wallet, made his appointment, and left the office suite feeling twenty pounds lighter than when he'd arrived. He took the elevator down to the first floor, and went to the ER staff lounge. As Mike walked in, he could hear Johnny talking.

"And so the arraignment is this afternoon. I'm just hoping they both plead guilty so this whole thing can be over with," Johnny said to Dixie, who was across from him on the couch. The lounge was empty except for Johnny and Dixie, so Johnny turned as Mike walked in.

"Hey! How'd you get done so fast? I thought your appointment wasn't even s'posta start till now."

"Cancellation. Just my lucky day, I guess," said Mike, sitting down next to Johnny. "Hi, Dixie. How are you?"

"I'm a lot better, now that I see you two looking more normal. You've really been through the wringer," she said, "so you deserve your lucky day today. Does the luck extend to everything being okay with your leg? Johnny said you were upstairs with Dr. Hansen."

"It does," said Mike. He explained what Hansen had told him, leaving out any reference to having forgotten his antibiotics. "And how 'bout you, Gage?"

Johnny shrugged. "Just left some samples, is all. Only surprise was, they did a quick screen of my hemoglobin—just like they do if you're gonna donate blood—and I failed that miserably."

"So liver and onions for dinner, then," Mike announced. "I've got Joanne's recipe somewhere. We'll stop at the store on the way home. I gotta get a prescription anyhow."

Johnny beamed at Dixie. "See? Ain't he great? My mom woulda made me drink water she soaked a rusty nail in. But Mikey? Nope."

"All right, Sunshine," Dixie laughed. "I know you're in good hands."

"I even do windows," Mike said, "which reminds me—we need to get home and see how that repair is going."

"Aw, but—"

"Actually, Johnny, I have to get back to work," Dixie said. "Don't be a stranger, huh? And I don't want the next time I see either of you guys to be for business—we're doing just fine here without you two coming in any more as customers. Which is my nursely way of saying take care of yourselves."

"That'll be a lot easier with that Staib asshole locked up," Johnny said.

"So it _was_ him," Dixie blurted.

"Huh?" Johnny said. "How'd you know about him? We didn't even know who he _was_ till they caught him."

For the first time that Johnny could remember seeing, Dixie looked flustered.

"Uh, let's just say … I, uh …" Dixie shook her head and blushed heavily. "I guess maybe someone in this room got their hands on some information they shouldn't have been able to get. And I shouldn't have said a darned thing, but it's too late now."

"The anonymous source!" Mike said. "I wondered who that could've been."

Johnny looked back and forth between Dixie and Mike. "_What_ are you guys talking about?"

"In my, uh, interview at the police station on Friday night, someone said something about a tip-off from an anonymous source leading them to look into Staib," Mike explained.

"Shoot, I really shouldn't have said anything," Dixie said.

"Don't worry—our lips are sealed, right Johnny?"

"Tighter'n a drum," Johnny declared. "I didn't hear a thing. Besides," Johnny said, as a group of interns poured into the lounge, "all you said was 'someone in this room,' and there's lotsa people here, right?"

Dixie laughed. "All right, you two—get yourselves home. And you—" she pointed to Johnny— "eat that liver, and some steak, and stay on the couch for the rest of the week."

"Yes ma'am," Johnny said, saluting her.

"Call me if he's not behaving himself," Dixie said to Mike. "I have Wednesday and Thursday off, and I could come babysit."

"Now wait a second!" Johnny said, as Mike opened the door for Dixie, let her through, and then steered Johnny out of the lounge.

"She's just kidding," Mike said.

"No, she's not," Dixie said. "But, somehow, I'll bet you've turned over a new leaf, and you _might_ actually be following the doctors' orders. Am I right?" she asked, looking at Mike.

"That's what it looks like," Mike confirmed. "C'mon, Gage—let's get you home and on the couch."

"Fine," Johnny pretended to grumble. "See ya, Dix."

"Take care, boys." She watched them go, shoulders bumping together as they walked down the corridor, closer together than most people would walk, but not close enough to seem odd. She had a pang of sadness for them—they couldn't hold hands, like Roy and Joanne could while walking down the same corridor, and couldn't even have the casual hand on the shoulder. But then, she had a surge of pride—maybe, just maybe, her amateur detective work contributed to the fact that they could go home tonight and be safe and sound in their own home. It was, after all, the least anyone could ask for.

**TBC**


	38. Len

**Chapter 38: Len**

Johnny woke abruptly as the truck's engine cut out. He opened his eyes to see that they were parked on the street in front of their house—the glazier's truck was still in the driveway, right next to the Rover.

Johnny looked over to Mike. "Hey," he said. "Sorry I slept the whole way."

"No problem," Mike replied, picking the books up off the seat. "It's almost three—you wanna go back to bed and sleep till dinner?"

"Nah—I think I might be able to actually stay awake for the rest of the day. C'mon—let's go see our new window."

They got out of the car. The new window was in place, and the glazier was just cleaning up from the job. The house finally looked the way it had before Staib and Torrelli had started their campaign to make life difficult for Mike and Johnny.

"Looks great," Mike said to the workers. "Thanks for fitting us in today."

"No problem," said the guy in charge. "How'd that happen, anyhow? It's pretty hard to break one of these accidentally."

"Two guys with a grudge and a hammer," Mike said dryly.

"Shit," said the worker. "Any chance the cops'll get them?"

"They already have. Sheriff's department did a great job. Plus, Mrs. Daniels, who let you in this morning—she saw the vandals at work, and got a partial plate number."

"Huh," the man said, closing his toolbox. "Well—we're off to our next job. I'll send you a bill; maybe insurance will cover it."

"We'll see—thanks again," Mike said.

"You're welcome." The two workmen got in their truck and drove off.

As Mike and Johnny walked into the house, the phone began to ring.

"Mine," Johnny said, recognizing the ring as belonging to his phone line. "I'll get it."

"Hello?"

"_Mr. Gage? It's Detective DeVito._"

"Oh—hi."

"_I just got back from the arraignment, and wanted to fill you in on what happened._"

"Hang on—let me get Mike on the extension."

Mike, who had been listening to the local end of the conversation, gave Johnny a "thumbs up" and trotted to the bedroom to pick up the extension.

"I'm on the line now," Mike said.

"_So here's the news. Torrelli's arraignment was first, since he'd been in custody longest. He pleaded 'not guilty' to all charges._"

"Shit," Johnny said angrily. "Does he seriously think he can get away with this crap?"

"_You'd be surprised what some people can delude themselves into thinking, but hang on a second; there's more. Staib pleaded nolo contendere to all the charges, which means his lawyer is going to try to make a deal with the D.A._"

"Is that a plea bargain?" Johnny asked.

"_Exactly—and one thing that's likely to happen is that Staib will offer to testify against Torrelli as a piece of his part of the deal. Because of that, it's not out of the question that Torrelli's lawyer would advise him to change his plea._"

"He'd plead guilty," Johnny asked, "so he'd get a lower sentence or something?"

"_No, he'd probably do just what Staib did—plead no contest and make a deal with the DA_."

"So what you're saying is, this could still all get done and over with without a trial?" Mike asked.

"_It's possible,_" DeVito said. "_If I were Torrelli's lawyer, I'd be trying to convince him to change his plea as we speak._"

"When would we know?" Mike asked.

"_That's the unfortunate part. Torrelli has up till the date of the trial to change his plea, and the trial was set for ten weeks from now._"

Mike felt like he could hear Johnny's heart plummeting to the floor.

"Ten _weeks_?" Johnny said. "That's forever!"

"_It's actually incredibly soon. It's often twice that long._"

"Well, keep us posted," Mike said. "And thanks for everything."

"_You're welcome,_" DeVito said. "_I'll be in touch if anything changes._"

Mike hung up the bedroom extension and went back to the living room. Johnny was sitting on the couch, with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. Mike sat down next to him, and Johnny reached over and took his hand.

"I can't stand this, Mike. I mean, if there's a trial, well, that's the two of us, forcibly outed to the world by our legal system. And if there's not, then these guys probably walk away with some bullshit sentence, and kind of get away with it." Johnny sighed heavily. "We might as well just start packing if there's gonna be a trial."

"How so?" Mike asked.

"No matter what anyone says, I don't believe for a _second_ that if there's a trial, the whole world isn't gonna know about us. And if they do—well, do you think the Fire Department is gonna make any efforts to keep us around? I doubt it. I bet there's plenty of others who feel just like Staib, but aren't dumb enough or mean enough to actually do anything about it."

Mike just sat next to Johnny for a couple minutes, not sure what to say. He settled for honesty.

"I don't think we should start packing just yet—let's wait to see what happens. You're probably right about one thing: if there's a trial, then our little 'open secret' becomes a lot more open, and a lot less secret."

"Yeah," Johnny said bitterly, "and then we're history. They'd find some way to get rid of us, I'm sure."

Mike frowned. "You know," he said slowly, "I really just don't know what our employer would do—I can see them going either way, actually."

Johnny picked his head up off the back of the couch and looked at Mike like he'd suddenly grown antennae.

"Huh? Wow, that's sure not the sense I get."

"Sure, because you have to deal with Livingston. He's a prick. But here's what I see from my boss: he finds my personal life difficult to contemplate, and is in all honesty probably appalled. But he pretty much lets it go, because I'm good at my job, and he knows it."

Johnny raised an eyebrow. "How do you figure that? I mean, why does it even come up?"

"Here's something different about working at HQ versus working at a station. Right now, you hardly ever see your boss. Am I right?"

"Yeah, fortunately. I think I'd blow a gasket if I had to see Livingston more than once every couple of weeks."

"And when you weren't a Captain, it was totally the opposite, right? At the station, we all pretty much live in each other's pockets, so any disputes or tensions get worked out, one way or the other, pretty quickly," Mike said.

"That's _mostly_ true …" Johnny said slowly.

"I know; you're thinking about Marco. But I'm talking more along the lines of tensions with the boss," Mike said. "Captain Stanley always nipped things in the bud, and Len Sterling was the same way. And I'd bet my bottom dollar that you don't let crap hang around in the air between you and anyone in your crew."

Johnny thought for a second. "True," he said. "I've had to talk to two of the guys about some crap. Mostly Emerson, right after he finished his probie time, but also a thing came up with Peters once."

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Perfect Peters? Now that's a story I'd love to hear, but I know, I know—none of my business. I sometimes wish I didn't kind of know half the guys on your crew. Anyhow—what I mean is, over at HQ, we have a happy medium between living in each other's pockets and only seeing each other once a month. And I don't know why, but I think it maybe makes people a little more tolerant of differences that can get in the way at either of the extremes."

"Huh," said Johnny. "I guess I can imagine that. But when does personal stuff even come up with Rhodes?"

"Ah—just had one example this morning. That fire your crew worked last week—the one with the fatality?"

Johnny nodded. "Yeah, that was a rough one."

"Well, the state needs a cause, of course, so our unit got called in. Two guys from my team did the initial investigation, and Rhodes asked me to put it all together. I told him I couldn't touch it, since I had a close personal relationship with one of the captains who worked the fire. He eventually figured out what I meant. He was annoyed—I mean, how often would that happen, where the last names weren't the same?—but didn't make a big deal out of it. We just worked it out that if there was anything that came up in Battalions 11 or 17, where C-shift was involved, I won't work on it."

"Sensible," Johnny said. "So he didn't know who I was?"

"No," Mike said, "and he very specifically didn't _want_ to know. He just wanted to know what station, and what shift. He actually said not to give him your name. Though with that information, he could look it up if he wanted to. But I don't see him doing that."

"Weird," Johnny said.

"Here's how I see it," Mike said. "He's just a regular guy—a _good_ guy—who's used to things being the way they've always been. He likes things to be familiar and comfortable. So when they're not? He doesn't wish me any ill, but he deals with 'It' in whatever way keeps him most comfortable, and keeps fuss to a minimum."

Johnny nodded. "I can practically hear you saying a capital letter and quotes around that word, 'It,'" he said, making little quotation marks in the air.

"Sounds that way in my head, too. Anyhow—do you see what I mean? I think, for most people, 'It' strikes up a certain amount of ambivalence, but doesn't necessarily inspire instant hatred. Or if it does, it doesn't inspire an instant need to act on their hatred."

"Yeah, well, what about Torrelli and Staib?" Johnny said, arms crossed over his chest.

"I said 'most people,'" Mike corrected mildly.

Johnny blew out a long breath. "Yeah. I know. Sorry. Gettin' kinda touchy."

"But do you see what I mean?" Mike repeated. "I think for most people, it's not worth the trouble to make a big deal out of things like, say, 'It.'" This time he purposely made quotation-mark gestures.

"I guess," Johnny said. "But still—it's probably not illegal to fire someone because you don't like who they're screwing."

Mike snorted. "Eloquently put, Gage. True—it's probably not. But is it worth the trouble? That's all I'm saying."

"I see your point, but all I'm saying is, I'd just as soon we don't have to go there. No trial is still my first choice. Not that we get to choose," he said bitterly.

"I'm with you there, Johnny—believe me, I am. And I wasn't trying to make a big deal about my point; it's just odd enough that I'm less worried about something than you are that it kind of stood out."

"Aw, no big deal, Mikey." Johnny picked up the hand that was holding one of his own, and kissed each finger individually.

The phone rang—it was Mike's line, so he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"_Howdy, Mike. Len Sterling here_."

"Len! How are you? All the guys okay?"

"_Everyone's fine, Mike. I'm just calling because I tried you at work, and the receptionist said you'd gone home sick, and that had me worried._"

"Oh—I'm not sick—not any more. I just had a doctor's appointment, and so did Johnny, so I took the afternoon off."

"_Glad to hear that. Is John doing better_?"

"Uh, a lot, but it's still a while till he's back on duty. He's still supposed to pretty much just rest."

"_Listen, Mike—I was so sure you were going to be awful sick that I planned on bringing you two your supper tonight. If you don't have plans, could I maybe come by anyhow? I'll take care of everything—get somethin' to throw on the grill, clean up—the works._"

"Wow, Len; that's awfully generous. Let me just check with Johnny—he's been really tired."

"_I promise I won't keep you up late, but do check with him._"

Mike covered the mouthpiece. "It's Len—he wants to bring dinner, and clean up and everything. You up for a visitor? He won't stay late."

"Sure," said Johnny. "Not too many people I could handle, but he's one of 'em."

"Sounds great, Len," Mike said into the receiver. "We appreciate it—things have been real tough for us lately."

"_So I've heard—but I also hear the law has some very bad boys in custody, is that right?_"

"Yep—we'll fill you in later. What time you think you'll show up?"

"_Oh, sixish, I'd say. Give or take._"

Mike laughed, knowing that for Len, that could mean anywhere from five till seven thirty. "All right—we'll see you when we see you, then."

Johnny looked at Mike as he hung up the phone. "What time's he comin' over?" he asked.

"Sixish," Mike replied, "with an emphasis on the 'ish,' of course."

"I'm thinkin', actually, that maybe I got a little ahead of myself when I said I could stay awake till bedtime—mind if I crash for a little while?"

"Not as long as I can lie down with you till you fall asleep. C'mon."

~!~!~!~

When the bell rang at six thirty, Mike was startled out of an unplanned nap on the couch. He folded up his newspaper and went to the door.

"Hi, Len; come on in."

"Howdy, Mike. Mind if I set these down in the kitchen? I've got chicken for the grill, and green beans and potatoes all set to go on the stove."

"Wow, that's great—thanks a lot. Here, I'll take it." Mike put the chicken in the refrigerator, and set the vegetables on the counter. "Lemme go get Gage—he's been sleeping since like three."

Len nodded. "Some people heal that way, don't they—sleep it off, just like a sickness."

"That does seem to be how he works," said Mike. "Be right back."

Mike popped into the bedroom, where he found Johnny starting to stir.

"Hey, sleepyhead. Len's here—you wanna get up?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, definitely." Johnny sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Geez. It's like I'm Rip van Winkle or something."

"Whatever works—and I'd say it's working, from what I see."

"Huh? Whaddaya see?" Johnny asked, as he pulled his clothes on.

"You just sat up, got out of bed, and put your pants on without wincing or grimacing in the slightest. And it's only been a week since you cracked those ribs."

"Well, whaddaya know?" Johnny said, stretching experimentally. "I guess things are starting to come together."

"But watch yourself, pal," Mike said, as they headed down the hallway. "Now's not the time to get cocky."

"Who's gettin' cocky? I'm not gettin' cocky! Hey, Len!" Johnny said as he rounded the corner to the kitchen.

"Well, howdy, John. You're looking worlds better than the last time I saw you. And I have to agree with Mike—it's certainly _not_ the time to get cocky. Soon as you start feelin' better, that's right when you're likely to set yourself back a step or two."

Johnny sat down on a stool at the counter. "Well, if you two are gonna gang up on me, then fine. I'll just hafta not get cocky. Not like I was anyhow."

"Why don't I get busy with this chicken," said Len, "if you'll point me to the grill."

"Far corner of the deck," said Mike. "It's self explanatory."

"Well, it's true that those of us who put out fires for a living are often fairly good at getting them started, as well," said Len. "So I'll take your word for it." He took the tray of chicken out to the deck, and returned a minute or so later. "Piece of cake."

Len looked around the house. "You sure do have a nice place, here, fellas. Did it come with one or the other of you, or did you go in on it together?"

"Came with me," said Mike, as he put the beans in a saucepan. "An uncle of mine left it to me. He was a fireman—got me into the business, actually—and left it to me. Well, actually, to any nephews who were firefighters at the time of his death. It was a total shock—I mean, I didn't know he had anything like that in his will, and I was like twenty five, and lived in this crummy, dinky apartment. And then suddenly I was a homeowner."

"So that's what brought you to the fire service," Len said. "I always wondered, actually. You don't really seem like the type."

"Well, it was what I wanted to do. My parents were dead set against it. I actually went to college for a year, just for one last-ditch effort to keep them happy—but I hated it. They pretty much stopped talking to me when I dropped out of school and went to the academy." Mike looked up from the potatoes. "And speaking of people who don't seem the type—what's _your_ story, Len? I have to say, I always wondered."

Len's face grew serious. "Well, now, boys, that's a story for after we've got ourselves around a drink or two. It's … not your usual story."

Mike stopped what he was doing. "Sorry, Len—I didn't mean to pry. You don't have to tell us if it's uncomfortable. Just seemed like a logical question."

"No, no—it's all right. I don't know as how I've told it to anyone before, except my first Captain. And I guess, now that I think about it, I'd kind of like to tell you two about it, if you don't mind hearing. Might be kind of a relief, in a way, to know that two people I trust and respect know my odd story," Len admitted.

Mike pulled the fridge open, and set a beer in front of Len, and another in front of himself, and a soda in front of Johnny.

"Here's to kidneys," Johnny said, clinking bottles with the other two men. "No coffee or alcohol for me for a while, yet."

Mike set the beans and potatoes to simmer on the stove, and leaned on the counter.

Len toyed with his beer, and suddenly downed about half of it in one go, as if steeling himself.

"I did some pretty stupid things when I was young," he began, "but I suppose that's no different a story from most of us."

Johnny and Mike both nodded.

"Guilty," Johnny said.

"Oh yeah," said Mike, nodding his head. "Me too—and don't look at me like that, Gage; it's true. But go on, Len."

"I supposed y'all know that I was involved in, shall we say, alternative ways of living, in the sixties?"

Johnny and Mike both nodded. "Yeah—we'd heard you lived on a commune, or something."

"That's pretty much what it was. Communal living, on a farm, in the middle of nowhere up in northern California. Pretty much ran away from home—which was the middle of nowhere in Georgia, in case you were wondering—when I was seventeen. Hitchhiked across the country, and landed at The Farm. That's the only name we had for the place."

"Anyhow, that was all dandy and perfect, until, guess what?"

Johnny piped up. "You got tangled up with a girl, and things fell apart, and you couldn't stay there any more."

"Got it in one, Gage. Got it in one." Len finished his beer, and Mike set another in front of him. "Summer of 1965. We were twenty. She got pregnant, I wanted to marry her, but she said she didn't believe in that old-fashioned sort of thing. I begged her, on my knees—I didn't want any child of mine to be born out of wedlock. Maybe it was old-fashioned of me. I don't know. But she flat out refused, so what could I do?"

"Not much, I suppose," Mike said. "Funny—some of us _want_ to get married, and _can't_, and then there's people who _can_ get married, and don't _want_ to. Anyhow—sorry. Go on."

"She flat out refused, every single day when I asked her. And I did—every single day. One day, she got so angry about my constant badgering, that she stormed out into the field to do her work for the day, and was out for a long, long time. Nobody thought a thing of it, until lunch time, when she didn't come in. Now, she was very careful about the baby—made sure she ate right, and quit drinking and smoking grass as soon as she suspected she was pregnant—so folks were worried when she didn't come in for lunch. Except for me—I told them how mad she'd been, and how she was surely just avoiding me. So we didn't go out to look. Not till almost supper time." Len took a long, long drink.

"When we finally went out to look for her, after she didn't show up for her kitchen duties, it took a couple hours till we found her. Dave found her, in the strawberry field, lying in a pool of blood. She'd miscarried, and hemorrhaged, and we hadn't even been looking for her, because I'd convinced everyone she was just mad at me." Len finished his beer. "Excuse me—I think I'll go flip the chicken. Be right back."

Johnny and Mike looked at each other.

"I don't think we're supposed to go out," said Mike.

"No," said Johnny. "Chicken doesn't need flipping for quite a while yet, in my book."

After a minute or two, Len came back inside. "Turns out it wasn't ready to be flipped anyhow." He looked at Mike. "You got another beer in that fridge?"

Mike silently passed a third beer to Len.

"So you probably figured this out already, but she was dead. Had been for hours and hours, by the looks of things. I blamed myself—maybe if I hadn't made her so mad, or maybe if I hadn't convinced people she hadn't come back because she was sulking—maybe, maybe, maybe. At any rate, it was convenient that I blamed myself, because the others sure as hell blamed me.

"So that was it for me and The Farm. And that's when I did the stupidest thing I'd ever done. I ran away from the establishment once, and ended up with heartbreak. So when I ran away from heartbreak, I ended up in the arms of the biggest, most rigid, meanest establishment in the entire United States of America." Len took a hearty swig from his bottle. "Yes sir, I joined the U.S. Marine Corps."

"I went through basic training without a hitch, and three months later—even before my child would have been born—there I was, in Vietnam. I suppose just about everyone knows I was in 'Nam, but I'm guessing mosta y'all assumed I got drafted. But that's not how it was."

Len shook his head. "Now, I'm not going to lay the entire sob story on you fellows of everything that happened over there. Quite a bit of it should just plain stay in my head, and die with me, when that time comes, without ever being let out. But the one piece that's important here, is what my assignment was. I was with a flamethrower unit. Yes siree Bob, I burned shit down, left right and center. Farms, fields, forests, and the occasional village that we were told was empty of anyone but VC. We burned, and burned, and burned. I don't know how much napalm my unit went through, but I can tell you one thing: it was a god damned awful lot."

"And we were so casual about it. Man, you think firefighters have graveyard humor, gallows humor? You oughta try a bunch of Marines who burn everything in their path."

"And then there was that one time—there's always that one time, in a story like this, isn't there? But there was that one time, when they told us the farmhouse was empty, that everyone had moved out already, that nobody was still in there. But it wasn't true. And we didn't bother to check whether it was true. I torched the huts myself, and, well … the rest of that story is gonna stay right where it is now." Len cleared his throat. "And now I honestly believe that the chicken really does need flipping." He slipped back out the back door.

Neither Mike nor Johnny said anything for a few seconds, and they didn't look at each other.

"Did you have any idea?" Johnny finally asked.

"I knew there was something, but …" He shook his head. "No. I didn't know how bad."

"Me neither," said Johnny. "I mean, I know plenty of vets, and all, but …" he shook his head. "Damn."

Len reappeared, and started back in to his story as if he hadn't just left. "When I was done with my tour of duty, I didn't re-up. I'd had enough. More than enough. But I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself. I don't know if either of you has ever been in that place—" Mike shook his head, but Johnny nodded vigorously. "Ah, I see there's a story for another day," Len said. "So I camped in the mountains for a few weeks, and tried to think of how I could possibly undo any of the things I'd done. I thought about working on commercial boats—after all, water is the opposite of fire. I thought about working construction—since building is the opposite of destroying.

"And then, one day, I was hiking, and happened to come across a brush fire station. It was the strangest thing—it was the middle of nowhere, and suddenly there was this fire station. And then it hit me—the opposite of setting fires is putting them out. I knew what I needed to do with myself. So I knocked on the door of the station, and asked the guys there what I'd need to do to become a firefighter.

"Two months later, I was enrolled in the academy down here in L.A. I didn't really care where I went—I just went to the place where I could start the soonest. And in 1967, I started my probie year, in a station that I know now was just about the worst possible match for a country hippie like me. I hated it—every single second of every single shift. But I considered it my penance, so I also loved it. If that makes any sense at all."

Mike nodded ever so slightly, but didn't say anything.

"Makes perfect sense," Johnny said, without missing a beat. "But you must've gotten out of the station you hated, though, right?"

Len nodded. "I did. After that probie year, I knew I could do the job, but I didn't know if I could learn to like it. But my first captain—a very smart man, may his soul rest in peace—knew exactly where I belonged, which was not in unincorporated East L.A., at a busy urban station that people fight to get into, but in the hinterlands, at a station that people fight to get out of. They sent me to a nice little station north of Palmdale—up in the hills. And I was there until 93s was built in, what, 1972? And there I've been, ever since. Worked my way up through Engineer, and then Captain." Len sipped his third beer, no longer in a hurry to get the alcohol into his system.

Nobody said anything for a few moments.

"You don't still hate it, do you? I mean, it doesn't _seem_ like you do." Mike said, hoping the answer was "no."

"No. No, I don't. As soon as I got out of the big city atmosphere, I discovered I actually _liked_ the work. I mean, really, _really_ liked it. I went from being a just-barely-made-it probie to, well, whoever I am today."

"A well-liked, highly-respected Captain who, even if he is reportedly a bit quirky, is one of the best firefighters around," Mike finished for him.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," laughed Len, but he was interrupted by Johnny.

"_I_ would. It's not a stretch, either," Johnny said. "And don't try to worm your way out of a compliment that happens to be true."

Len mimed tipping his hat to the two of them. "Well, then, I thank you kindly."

"Did you ever think of giving up?" Mike asked. "I mean, we've all had our moments, but—what about at first, when you were just doing it as penance?"

"No, not seriously," Len said. "Partly because of the penitential factor, and partly because I was just too frightened to start over, pick up a new trade again. Perhaps that was cowardly—I don't know. But in the past few years, I've realized I've become something I never hoped to be." He took a drink from his beer, and Johnny asked the logical follow-up question.

"And what's that, Len?"

"A happy man, gentlemen. And really, who can ask for anything more than that?"

Johnny and Mike nodded their agreement, just as the kitchen timer went off.

"Doesn't sound much like my mama's dinner bell, but let's eat anyhow," said Len.

While they ate, Mike related the rest of their tale, up to and including the news that they would possibly dealing with a trial in a couple of months. As Mike noticed Johnny starting to pick at his food, he did his best to change the topic, while trying not to _look_ like he was changing the topic. The conversation eventually swayed back to news about Len's A-shift crew, Mike's former co-workers.

"I'll tell you, Mike," said Len, "what with Holtz being A-shift's third engineer since you had to leave us, people are sure hoping he starts fittin' in a bit better."

"Why? What's going on?" Mike asked.

"Well, let's just say that boy needs a little attitude adjustment. Just because you make engineer doesn't suddenly make you squire of the manor," said Len.

"Oooh," said Johnny, "sounds like he needs a little pranking."

"Captain Gage, you have a devious mind," said Len, "and I'm inclined to agree with your suggestions on this one."

"I had an excellent teacher, where it came to firehouse pranks," said Johnny. "I'll give ol' Chester B. a call, and see what he might have up his sleeve for an engineer who might just be a bit too full of himself."

Mike shook his head. "And I thought the Captains were supposed to discourage this kind of thing, not start it."

"Attitude adjustment, Mikey. All part of the job," said Johnny, as he dug heartily into his meal.

Mike carefully didn't allow himself to smile like he wanted to—he was just happy that Johnny's attitude had just undergone a little adjustment itself.

**TBC**


	39. Hazardous

A/N: I know next to nothing about arson investigation or hazardous materials operations, so please don't laugh too hard at my mistakes if you do.

**Chapter 39: Hazardous**

_._

_Tuesday morning, LACoFD HQ_.

Mike was in the middle of reading the background on his new assignment when his phone rang.

"Mike Stoker, Arson/Fire Investigation."

"_Stoker? Rhodes here. I just got a call from Chief McConnike, the Battalion Chief down in one of your old territories. In fact, if I'm remembering right, wasn't Hank Stanley was your Captain down there? Anyhow—his crew is down there now. They just worked a suspicious-looking warehouse fire—it's under control now, so I want you and Harris to go down there and take a look. Harris doesn't usually go to the scene when it's still active, but you can show him the ropes and keep him out of trouble._"

"Sure, Boss. I'll go grab Wes and we'll head straight down."

"_Your leg okay for picking through the rubble in turnouts?_"

"Yep—the leg's feeling good as new today, so that shouldn't be a problem."

"_You may need to pack up, depending on how far through overhaul they are. None of this smoke-eater bullshit, all right? Good air is good air, and bad air sucks the life outta you. So if you need a pack, wear it. And if you need to be on air, Harris doesn't go in._"

"I think I can probably remember how the air pack works," Mike joked. In fact, a year and a half after the last time he'd worn one, he'd be able to don it perfectly in pitch dark, drunk, with one hand tied behind his back, and Rhodes knew that perfectly well.

"_Terrific. So grab your gear, and get Harris, and take a car from the motor pool, all right? Stop by my office and I'll give you an authorization slip and the location of the incident._"

"Will do, boss. Be down in five."

Mike put away the file he'd been reading, and trotted down to Harris's office. He knocked on the door.

"C'mon in!"

"Mornin', Harris. Listen—Rhodes has an evidence gathering job for us, effective instantly. Let's go grab some gear from the gear room, and stop by Rhodes's office for a car signout slip, and I'll drive us down there. It's apparently in my old stomping ground—I mean my _really_ old stomping ground, down by 51s, so I'll know my way around there just fine."

"Okay—I can go right now."

Wes locked up his office, and the pair headed down to the AFIU equipment room. They picked up evidence collection kits for each of them. Mike grabbed boots in his size and tucked them into the legs of the pants he grabbed from a rack, and grabbed a coat and threw it on top of that bundle. Finally he went to a rack and grabbed a red helmet with "AFIU" on the shield, and stuck a pair of gloves into the pocket of the coat.

Mike noticed Wes was just watching. "You've had turnout gear on before, right?"

"Uh, just a couple times," Wes admitted.

"All the sizes are listed on the shelf. Go too big rather than too small, except for the inseam—a little too short's better than too long. Stick the boots into the ankles of the pants—just make sure the lining of the pants comes down over the boots too. For gloves—lemme see your hands—okay, get size large."

Wes followed Mike's instructions, and then looked on with interest as Mike automatically went through the various steps of verifying that the air pack was fully in service.

"Should I grab one of those too?" Wes asked. "I've only had one on once, and that was just like a demo thing, to show us how heavy all that shit is."

"Nope—Rhodes said if I need to be on air, you don't go in. I'll go in with one of the guys working overhaul."

"Oh," said Wes. "Okay. Just doesn't look like that big of a deal."

"It's not hard to learn the basics, but if you're in a situation where you need an air pack, it's a dangerous situation, where things could go wrong. And when things go wrong, your responses need to be automatic, and yours wouldn't be. That's the only thing." Mike tactfully didn't mention the fact that just standing around in turnout gear and an air pack was tiring as hell.

"Makes sense," said Wes. "I, uh, don't usually go to the scene when it's still being worked on like this—give me a holler if I'm about to do something dumb, all right?"

"You bet. Just stick with me, all right?"

They packed their gear into huge duffel bags, and stopped briefly at Rhodes's office for the vehicle authorization and the location information.

"All right—we're off," Mike said. "Down to the motor pool, and then we head to Carson."

"The motor pool?" Wes said anxiously. "Uh, would you mind checking the car out without me? I'll meet you, um, I don't know—where's a convenient place?"

"Out front, in the flag-pole circle? I can swing around there. What's up? You forget something?"

"Uh, yeah, that's it. I, uh, forgot something. I'll be out there when you have the car."

"Okay," Mike said, not wanting to bother with whatever had Wes weirded out about going to the motor pool. He hauled his gear out to the back of the building, and walked to the desk at the back of the garage.

"Mornin'," said the bored-looking guy at the desk. "What c'n I getcha?"

"Just need whatever you've got for two guys and two sets of gear. Gathering evidence at a structure fire, so it might get smelly." He handed the requisition slip to the clerk.

"Terrific. Okay, Car 112. It's a Ford wagon. Great family car. Put the smelly crap in the back of the wagon, and we can still be friends." He handed Mike the keys, and had him sign a few forms.

Mike was about to leave to go get the car and pick up Harris, when a thought occurred to him.

"Say, you don't know a fellow named Staib, do you?"

The clerk frowned deeply. "Yeah, I worked with him. All I heard is that he's in the slammer. Which is exactly where he oughta be, if you ask me, which you didn't, but I'm tellin' you anyhow. That guy's a fuckin' psycho. Always screwing around with somebody or another."

"What's he in the joint for?" Mike asked, feeling slightly guilty. He wasn't _exactly_ talking about the case, but DeVito certainly wouldn't approve of this line of questioning.

"Heard he beat a fireman up for being gay, or something. Fuckin' dipshit. Don't get me wrong, I don't like gays any better than you, but beatin' up one of the brothers? That's low. I mean, as long as there's no hittin' on guys at work, or staring at their asses, I don't really give a shit. Anyhow, Charley said Staib ain't comin' back here regardless."

"Huh. Who'd've thought," Mike said vaguely. "Anyhow—thanks. Have a good one."

Mike picked up the car, and swung around to the front of the building. Harris was waiting in the flag-pole circle, so Mike stopped the car and let Wes load his gear into the back. They started the short drive to Carson, and Wes read the summary aloud as they drove.

"Twenty thousand square foot warehouse on a single story. Subdivided into four areas. Two areas stored chemicals in containers, and two areas stored ordinary combustibles. The suspicion is that the fire's origin was in one of the chemical storage areas, and that it spread to the rest of the building. The place was fully involved."

Mike whistled. "Boy, I'll bet that was a bitch. And overhaul is really gonna be a bitch. Always is, for warehouse fires."

"How come?" Wes asked.

"First of all, a warehouse is huge—for a place that size, if it's fully involved, you'd need upwards of seven thousand gallons of water _per minute _to put the fire out in a timely fashion. More, depending on what's stored inside, and more, if there are nearby exposures in danger. That's a hell of a lot of water. Not always easy to do, depending on your hydrants. So with any luck, it wasn't fully involved by the time the got there. Or there probably won't be any evidence left to sift through, let's put it that way."

"What about overhaul? Why's that so bad?"

"Well, the whole purpose of a warehouse is to store tons and tons of stuff. And it's often packed floor to ceiling. The whole purpose of overhaul is to find any hot spots and make sure the fire doesn't start itself up again. So you have to tear everything in the involved areas apart to look for hot spots that could rekindle. And it's dangerous in there, because of all the stuff piled high that's then had thousands of gallons of water thrown at it, so it's heavier than usual, and probably damaged and unstable. But you know all that—so you know we won't be able to just run in and start poking around."

"Maybe someday they'll invent like some kind of binoculars or something that can see heat," Wes said. "That'd sure save a lot of time, wouldn't it?"

"Sure would—you could even probably see through walls and find hidden hot spots," Mike replied. "I dunno, though—that sounds awfully Star Trek."

"I'll tell you what—in my spare time, I'll work on inventing some heat binoculars and a thing where you can talk into it and it'll put what you said onto paper, like I was talking about Friday."

Mike shook his head. "Like I said, man—Star Trek. Not in a hundred years."

Mike was glad to see Wes behaving normally—not trying to apologize for something mysterious like he did Monday. And he seemed like he was making an effort not to be abrasive, so Mike did his best to be friendly. They chatted about this and that for the rest of the short drive to the warehouse. As they entered the vicinity, Mike started looking around.

"We've gotta be close," he said. "I can smell it. Look—there." He pointed out the driver's side of the windshield. "That's gotta be it."

Wes checked the address. "Yeah, this is the cross street here."

Sure enough, as they turned the corner, they saw multiple pieces of fire apparatus staged all along the block. The street was blocked off with barricades, and would have been impassible anyhow, since there were still several supply lines running across the street from various hydrants, so they parked on the cross street and grabbed their bags of gear and their evidence collection kits. Each man wore his department ID conspicuously on his shirt pocket, so they would be let onto the scene.

Mike stopped to talk to the man at the barricade. He showed his ID. "Can you let the Chief know we're here?"

"You bet." The firefighter activated the lapel mike of his radio. "Chief McConnike from Andersen at the east barricade. Your AFIU guys are here—Stoker and Harris."

"_Copy. Send 'em on down—I'm at the overhead door on the Alpha/Bravo corner._"

"Will do." He turned to Stoker. "Go on ahead."

Mike and Wes crossed over the barricade. Wes barreled on ahead, but Mike stopped him.

"Hold it—better gear up before we go any further." Mike set down his bag, threw his office shoes into the bag, and stepped into his bunker pants and boots. He had the coat and helmet on, and the air pack slung loosely over his shoulders, before Wes had even gotten one leg into the bunker gear. He waited patiently and without comment as Wes geared up awkwardly.

"Hang on, Wes—suspenders up before you put the coat on."

"Oops," Wes said sheepishly, turning beet red. He finished with the coat, and put his helmet on and tightened the strap.

Mike took one look at him and had to bite the insides of his cheeks—hard—to keep from laughing. "Uh, your helmet's on backwards," Mike said, struggling to keep his face impassive.

"Shit," Wes said, yanking the helmet off and replacing it in the correct direction. "Does everything look okay now?"

"Just fine. Relax, okay? I won't let you get in trouble," Mike said. "C'mon, let's go find the Chief." He walked along the front of the building, until he got to the far left corner, and found the large overhead door. A man with a white helmet was standing there, next to a very tall man with a black-and-white skunk-striped helmet.

"Chief?" Mike said. The two men turned around. "Cap!"

"Well, Mike Stoker!" said Captain Stanley. "I'd say long time no see, but that'd be a lie. Great to see you on the job. Chief, this is Mike Stoker—he was on my crew for over six years."

"Sure, I remember Stoker," said Chief McConnike. "If I recall, you transferred up to the North division, and then got hurt pretty bad. So you're in Arson and Fire Investigation now? Good for you."

"And this is Wes Harris," Mike said. "He usually works with the sheriffs, but he's with me on the scene today."

"Harris," said the Chief, shaking Wes's hand. "All right—Hank, why don't you show these two the chemical storage area we're concerned about so they can get started. And, who was it on your crew that noticed the suspicious circumstances?"

"Lopez—one of my really experienced guys, and Flint, our probie," said Hank. "They're loading hose—you want 'em?"

"Sure," said McConnike.

"Lopez, from Stanley. You and Flint come on down to the overhead door on the A/B corner, will ya?"

"_Sure, Cap—be right there._"

Mike grinned as he recognized Marco's voice. He looked around the scene as they waited for Marco and Flint.

"Boy, Cap—this looks like it was a real bitch."

"You can say that again, Mike," replied Hank. "Every time we thought we had it knocked down, some pile of crap would light up again. We're all tired as hell and want to get back to quarters, but we're not done here and we know it."

Marco trudged up, along with a tall, lanky firefighter wearing a yellow helmet.

"Hey, Marco!" said Mike.

"Mike? How great! Sean, this is my buddy Mike I was telling you about, from the Arson unit. Man, Stoker—I was just saying how funny it would be if we got you on this one."

Mike and Marco each introduced their co-workers to the other team, and Mike tightened up his SCBA straps as the party headed into the warehouse.

"So, Marco—I guess you're gonna show us what looked weird to you. But let's do it this way," said Mike. "Just take us back there at first, but don't say anything about what made you suspicious. We'll take a look, and see if we notice the same things as you, at first. Then we can chat about what we all saw, and Wes and I will get our pictures and samples."

Marco and Flint led Wes and Mike through the safest part of the warehouse into one of the chemical storage areas.

"Here's the area where I got worried," said Marco, pointing Mike to an interior wall.

A large metal drum stood next to a wall, and a dark "V" of black spread up along the wall from above the drum. Several identical drums all showed the same "V" pattern extending up the wall. All the drums were misshapen and blackened.

"I see why you called us," said Mike. "It looks like there are multiple, simultaneous origins—and that almost never happens by accident."

"That's what I thought, too," said Marco.

Wes inspected one of the blackened drums. "I can't read the label on this; can any of you?"

Mike, Marco, and Sean Flint all shook their heads.

"It's definitely strange," said Wes. "Whaddaya think, Stoker?"

"I think we oughta do what we normally do—get pictures, make a diagram of the contents of the area. And we oughta number each drum and get a sample from each one. Lord only knows what's in these things," Mike said, shaking his head.

"You know, I don't know much," said Flint, "but I can tell you one thing. I cleaned pools when I was a teenager, so I was around a lot of chlorine, and I'm definitely getting a chlorine smell here."

Mike sniffed the air. "I don't smell it," he admitted.

Marco shook his head. "Me, neither."

But Wes nodded. "I'm smelling it too—pretty nasty."

Mike and Marco looked at each other. "I guess a dozen years of eating smoke'll knock your nose right out," Marco suggested. "Cause we don't smell a thing."

Wes started getting out his evidence collection kit. He put a numbered flag by one of the barrels, and paused for a moment.

"Hey, Mike? Come check this out."

Mike stepped over to the barrel in question. Wes had his hand on the side of the barrel. Marco and Sean looked on, wondering what Wes had found.

"What's up?" Mike asked.

"Should this still be so hot? I mean, I know this place was just on fire and all, but … I dunno. Just seems awful hot."

Mike held the back of his hand near the barrel without touching it, and then did the same with some adjacent barrels. "You're right—it's hotter than the rest of them. Something's really fishy here." He sniffed the air. "And you know what? I can smell it now—like bleach, except stronger." He coughed. "All right, Wes—I want you to get out, because whatever this is, it's nasty shit. Marco, you mind pairing up with me for a minute?"

"Sure thing, Mike. Flint, you take Harris out," said Marco. He got his radio. "Command from Lopez, in the chemical storage room. Be advised we have a possible hazardous materials situation; we're sending Harris out with Flint."

Flint and Harris were starting to cough as well. "Nasty," said Flint. "C'mon—let's get outta here. You don't have air, and it's getting worse and worse in here."

Mike and Marco masked up and went on air as Flint ushered Harris out.

"Marco, you see labels on any of these drums?" Mike shouted, to be audible through the mask and regulator.

Marco and Mike started looking through the room for any indication of what the chemicals could be, and found none. All the drums were too badly damaged.

"Not a thing, Mike."

Mike returned to the barrel that was hotter than the others, and again put his hand near the barrel. "Marco? If this isn't hotter than before, than I'm a monkey's uncle. I think we oughta get out of here—something really weird is going on here." He pulled his hand away—it was burning and itching, and Mike was starting to get nervous about what might be in those barrels.

Marco put an ungloved hand near the barrel, then looked at it and wiped it on his pants. "I'm with you. C'mon." He pressed in the button on the lapel mike of his radio. "Incident command from Lopez, in the chemical storage room—we have some kind of self-heating chemical reaction going on here—we're coming out."

"_Copy_," came McConnike's voice from the radio. "_I have a team coming in with a hand line._"

"Look!" Mike shouted to Marco.

The hot drum was starting to exude a yellowish-greenish gas.

Mike grabbed Marco's arm and urged him to the door. "Chlorine gas!" he shouted. "Get out!" He pushed Marco in front of him, and closed what was left of the door behind him. The two men took off at a dead run, until they were well away from the area where the drums were kept.

Halfway through the building, they met the hand-line team and stopped them.

"Chlorine gas!" Mike yelled. "Your gear won't protect you. Turn around and get out!" His hands felt like they were burning. He and Marco and the hand-line team raced through the building to the exit.

As soon as they were outside, Mike and Marco instantly started stripping off their turnout gear.

"Hose us down—fast!" shouted Mike. "We've been exposed to chlorine gas."

The team with the hand line set their nozzle to a fog pattern, and sprayed the two men down. The water was ice cold, and Mike and Marco shivered miserably in the freezing spray.

Chief McConnike and Captain Stanley rushed over, accompanied by one of 51's paramedics, and another from Station 10.

"What the hell happened, boys?" the Chief asked.

"I don't know what's in those barrels, Chief, but it's heating spontaneously, and now it's emitting chlorine gas," Mike said through chattering teeth. "Harris and your probie should get checked out too—I bet we were all breathing some chlorine in there."

The paramedics threw blankets around Mike and Marco. "We should wash out your eyes, fellas—I know you were masked up, but better safe than sorry."

Mike coughed, and waved at them to proceed. He and Marco cooperatively tipped their heads back as the paramedics held their eyes open and poured saline over them.

"Man, that was close," Mike said to Marco. "I'll bet that whole room is filled with gas by now. And that stuff—as soon as it hits water, it turns to acid. That's why our eyes are burning." He coughed again.

The paramedic from Squad 51, whose name badge read "J. Castro," frowned at him. He set up the biophone and began contacting Rampart.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," Mike said to him. "It's just a tickle." He coughed again, despite trying to appear completely healthy.

Captain Stanley raised his eyebrows. "Been taking lessons from Gage, there, pal? I know you're not under my command, but I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd let these guys do their jobs, all right?" He called over to the other two men who'd been in the room. "Harris? Flint? Come on over here."

Suitably chastened, Mike submitted to the exam. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath.

Mike overheard Chief McConnike ordering a hazmat unit. "And have law enforcement begin evacuating a one thousand foot radius—we can't afford to take any chances with this stuff."

Wes sat down next to Mike, and had his eyes washed out as well. He coughed once or twice. "Remind me never to go out on an assignment with you again," he said.

"Look at it this way," Mike replied. "At least _you_ didn't have to get hosed down. So much for gathering evidence, huh?"

"Yep. Didn't even get one sample."

"We can leave that for guys in hazmat suits. 'Cause I'm not goin' in there again, I can tell you that."

Wes thought for a minute. "You know what I'll bet happened?"

Mike shook his head. "No, what?"

"I'll bet that stuff is some kind of hypochlorite—an oxidizing agent. Might be used for pools, or maybe for bleaching paper. Maybe it's calcium hypochlorite. In certain forms, that stuff can undergo rapid decomposition—and when it does, it gets hot, and releases chlorine gas. You wanna bet that's what started this fire?" Wes punctuated his remark with a cough.

"No bets," Mike said, coughing again. "Sounds like you have a winner there. If the hazmat guys can get some samples, I'll bet we're done—not arson, just inappropriately stored hazardous materials." He did his best to ignore the paramedic taking his blood pressure, but couldn't help coughing a few more times.

"You have any history of lung problems?" Castro asked.

Mike nodded. "Yeah, actually—I had a bunch of badly broken ribs about a year and a half ago; one of 'em punctured my right lung, so I have some scarring there. That's all, though."

"That's 'all?'" replied Castro. "Sounds like plenty to me."

"Yeah, well, that's one of the reasons I'm in AFIU now, and not still an engineer."

"What's the other reason?" Castro asked.

"Femur in three pieces, same accident. Hit by a car at a scene," Mike completed, knowing what question would be next.

Castro completed his report to Rampart, and Mike listened in dismay as Dr. Early, whose voice he recognized on the other end of the line, replied.

"_All right, fellas. Bring 'em in, just as a precaution._"

"Aw, crap," said Mike. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," said Captain Stanley. "Look at it this way: if, say, someone else we both know well was resisting getting looked at, would you be annoyed if they decided to brush it off?"

"All right, all right," Mike grumbled. "Sounds like our fate is sealed, Wes. All four of us, right, Castro?"

"Everyone who was in that room," the paramedic confirmed. "You don't need to go in an ambulance, but you have to go in the squad or the engine."

"I'll tell ya what, Mike," said Cap. "You ride with us, for old time's sake. I'll make the probie take the jump seat. I'll have Dunworth—he's our other paramedic, and where the heck is he, anyhow? I'll have him take your Department car over to Rampart. Harris can squeeze into the squad—Castro, you drive. That way we can all avoid the whole ambulance thing, and you'll have your ride for when they boot you right back out of Rampart once they see everything's fine."

Mike coughed again.

"I guess letting me drive Big Red is out of the question, right? No, don't answer that; I was just kidding. I'm happy to let Jackson drive. She's been his baby for two and a half years now, after all."

"All right—everything settled?" asked Cap. "I'll throw your gear into the back of the Department car—toss me the keys, will ya? And you should probably run all the gear through the washer, and get it all thoroughly checked out—who knows whether that chlorine gas contacted any water and turned into acid in the gear, ya know?"

Mike nodded. "I'll take care of it. You all right riding in the squad, Wes?"

Wes nodded. Privately, he'd been hoping to ride on the engine, but … oh well.

"Actually, Harris," said Captain Stanley, noticing as Wes's face fell, "Flint's a lot bigger than you—why don't you take the jump seat, and Flint can get in the squad."

"Either way would be fine with me," Harris said casually.

"Okay!" Cap clapped his huge hands together. "Probie—in the squad. Harris, Stoker—you're with me. And as soon as I find Dunworth, who's about to be busted back down to a yellow helmet if he doesn't show up, we're on our way."

"There he is, Cap," said Castro, pointing to the corner. "Bet he was having a smoke."

Cap shook his head. "Skirtin' the edge," he muttered to himself. "All right, men—let's get rolling. I'll have Dunworth take care of your gear so we can get this show on the road."

Cap trotted over to Dunworth, and Mike saw, but couldn't hear, what appeared to be a somewhat heated exchange. Mike, Marco, and Harris headed over to the engine, just as Jackson finished loading up some odd and ends.

"Stoker!" Jackson exclaimed. "You riding in with us?"

"Yep," said Mike. "Four of us are getting a free ride to Rampart. Ed, this is my colleague Wes Harris. Wes, Ed Jackson. He's taken real good care of my old baby, haven't you, Ed?"

"You bet—c'mon, hop in."

It was too loud to chat in the cab, so Mike just sat back and enjoyed the feeling of riding in a fire engine for the first time in a year and a half. He looked over at Wes, who looked like a kid in a candy shop. He was craning his head to see what the front of the cab looked like, and looking all around the back of the cab at the miscellaneous equipment stored within the rear of the cab. Mike just smiled and enjoyed the ride.

At Rampart, the exams were quick and unsurprising.

"Hi again, Doc," Mike greeted Dr. Early.

"Mike! We've got to stop meeting like this." He checked the notes the paramedic had left. "So, you got a whiff of some chlorine gas, is that right?"

"Just a little, tiny bit is all—I swear. I sent out the guy with no air pack, and went on air myself, the second I figured out what was happening."

"How do you know what it was?"

"Well, we're not totally sure—there were no legible markings on the drums, but we all smelled chlorine. The two guys who hadn't wrecked their senses of smell by eating smoke for over a decade smelled it first, but we all smelled it eventually. And then there was the yellow-green gas—but we were on our SCBA air by the time we saw that."

Dr. Early put his stethoscope to Mike's chest. "Breathe in deeply for me, and out, a couple of times." Mike followed Early's instructions, as the doctor listened to different parts of his lungs.

"Everything sounds fine, Mike. The reason we wanted you all to come in was that exposure to chlorine gas can have delayed effects—your airways could have swelled up, or you could have developed fluid in your lungs, but I think it's fair to say that since half an hour has passed, and everything sounds good, there's no danger at this point."

Mike sighed. "Great, Doc. I was hoping you'd say that. Honestly, I feel fine, except for a little tickling cough. Oh, and I guess my hands got a little burned." He held his hands out in front of him, and Dr. Early examined them carefully.

"Very mild acid burns, I'd say." He opened a cabinet and handed Mike a tube of ointment. "Just use this as needed—it's a bit messy, but it might help with the sting."

"Thanks, Doc."

Dr. Early looked Mike over again. "Everything else all right? I always hate to see someone come in so many times in short succession, but I realize this was a total coincidence."

Mike smiled. "Right as rain, Doc. I saw Dr. Hansen yesterday, and he said the infection looked under control. I've been sleeping fine, since those creeps have been in jail. And Johnny's doing a lot better, too."

Dr. Early smiled right back at him. "Isn't it amazing what four days can do? I recall quite a different conversation with you, just on Friday."

Mike shook his head. "Man, I really unloaded on you, big time. I was a total, utter wreck. Sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it, Mike. There's all different ways doctors can do our jobs, and sometimes, just listening is one of them. So I'm very glad to hear things are looking up."

"Thanks, Doc. And—no offense, but geez, I really wanna get out of here now."

Dr. Early made a sweeping gesture towards the door. "You're a free man, Mike. Say hello to Johnny from me, all right?"

Mike buttoned up his shirt. "You bet, Doc."

Mike was the last of the four chlorine victims to be turned loose. Flint and Lopez had been checked over first so they could get Engine 51 back in service. Harris was sitting in the waiting room when Mike came out from the exam room.

"Sounds like we're all gonna live," Mike said to Harris. "Come on—let's get back to HQ. Rhodes isn't gonna believe this one."

"Well, look at it this way," said Wes. "If we were right about what that stuff was, then it's pretty likely it wasn't intentionally set, which means a hell of a lot less work for all of us, right? So he'll probably be thrilled."

"Thrilled?" Mike asked, as they headed out to the car. "Always kind of seems to me like he's perpetually pissed off."

"Oh, he's just stressed out. I don't think he handles day-to-day stress so well. You know his story, right?"

Mike shook his head.

"Well, he was a firefighter, just like you, but he got invalided out by a heart attack—when he wasn't even forty. So the stress thing? Nothing new, is my guess. I've been working for him for four years, and he's looked pissed off pretty much the whole time."

"Oh," said Mike. "I guess I always thought he just had something personal against me. You know."

"What, that?" Wes shook his head. "To be honest? Everyone heard rumors at first. But Rhodes? He pretty much told us to shut the fuck up and mind our own business."

"Oh," Mike said again.

They drove in silence for a couple of minutes, and then pulled into the motor pool area at HQ. Mike and Wes got out, and grabbed their large duffel bags of gear. Mike filled out the mileage slip at the desk, and returned the key to the attendant, while Wes, for some reason, hung back by the edge of the parking area, waiting, with his back to the motor pool area.

"You said this job might get messy—anything need taking care of in the car?" asked the attendant.

"Nope—turned out completely differently than it sounded at first. Nothing came back with us," Mike replied. "Should be clean as a whistle in there."

"Great. Have a good one," said the attendant.

Mike returned to where Wes was waiting.

"You, uh, got some bad history with someone in there, Wes?" Mike asked.

"Kind of," Wes said, looking at the ground as they walked around to the front door.

Mike frowned. Wes had been acting normally all morning, but was returning to the twitchy, almost guilty behavior he'd been exhibiting recently. And yesterday's bizarre half-apology still loomed large in Mike's mind. He resolved to clear that business up before heading home for the day, one way or another.

"Well—let's go see Rhodes. I'll bet you lunch at the canteen that he drums his fingers on the desk and bites his pencil at least once while we're in there, and says 'Jesus' at least twice."

"No bet," said Wes. "'Cause that's exactly what's gonna happen."

~!~!~!~

"Chlorine gas? So much that you could actually _see _it?" said Rhodes. "Jesus!" He drummed his fingers on the desk. "All right—so no samples, then. I don't blame you for that."

"We may still get some," said Mike. "Chief McConnike was calling in the Hazmat team, and they were going to try to get some samples. They probably have to know what it is to clean it up right, anyhow. Chief's gonna call me later."

Rhodes gnawed on his pencil. "Fine. But you got pictures, right?"

"Yep. I'll take the film to the lab to get developed right away. It was interesting to see—it really did look like multiple ignition points, so I see why they called us in."

"And nearly got you killed. Chlorine gas," Rhodes repeated, "so thick you could see it. Jesus. Lucky you had your SCBA, and got on air when you did."

"And he got rid of me just in time, too," said Wes. "If he hadn't shooed me out when he did, I'd've gotten a lungful of really bad shit."

"So, what do we have?" Rhodes asked. "Pictures of multiple simultaneous ignition sites, your accounts of chlorine odor and visible gas, and your accounts of increasing heat in that one barrel. It's not sounding like arson to me. Sounds like some kind of bad shit stored improperly. But we'll wait on the samples from Hazmat before we write anything up, okay?"

"Sure, boss," said Wes.

"And good work, boys. I got nothin' for you, and you took a lot of crap today, so you can head out as soon as you write up your notes, and get the film to the lab. And, Stoker, can you get that gear taken care of over at the training center?"

"Will do. I'll make sure they check it for acid damage."

"Okay. All right." He made shooing gestures towards the door. "See you tomorrow."

Out in the hall, Wes tittered. "Good thing I didn't take that bet—you had him pegged."

"It's us quiet guys you have to watch out for," said Mike. "Or at least, that's what the guys at 51s always said."

They took the elevator up to the sixth floor. Wes followed Mike to his office, and stood outside the door as Mike entered the office.

"Uh, listen—can I come in for a minute?"

"Sure," said Mike. He sat at his desk chair, and motioned for Wes to take the chair across from him. "What's going on, Wes? You've seemed really nervous about something recently, and, well, yesterday? I didn't really know _what_ to make of what you said."

Wes sighed. "Yeah."

Mike looked him in the eye. "It's something about the case, isn't it? We were told not talk about the case—and so were you."

Wes looked away from Mike's direct gaze. "Look: he just told you not to _talk_ about the case, right?"

"Right …"

"Well, I'm not asking you to talk. Just to listen. Nobody told you not to _listen_. So will you listen?"

"Won't you get in trouble for talking?"

Wes laughed. "You know what? I don't really care, to be honest. So—will you listen?" he repeated.

"Yeah. Okay, I'll listen."

Wes kept staring at the floor. "I screwed up, all right? I really, really screwed up." He took a pen out of his pocket and fidgeted with it.

Mike didn't say anything. He knew this was a time when the famous Stoker silence was the most appropriate response.

"That guy, Staib? He goes to my church. I didn't ever know him well. I mean, we talked sometimes, because we figured out we both worked in the same place, but that was about it."

Wes cleared his throat. "At our church, once a month or so, a lay person does a short sermon on a topic of his or her choosing. It was probably about a year and a half ago—about six months before you came to work here—that Staib did one on the evils of homosexuality," Wes continued, looking anywhere and everywhere but at Mike. "How gays will destroy marriage, family, everything—for the rest of us. He was … vicious. It seemed more personally oriented than religiously oriented, though. Especially when he got to the part about how his sister was 'used and dumped' by a gay fireman who obviously was just trying to cover his tracks."

"All I thought of that, was, there can't possibly be any gay firemen. I mean, the fire department is the last place you'd look for queers, right? It's such a man's world, for tough guys. So I just figured he was full of shit."

"And then, six months later or so, when you were about to come to our group, I started hearing the rumors. 'He's the one who got run over by a car, and his boyfriend was with him at the hospital the whole time!' 'Did you hear the new guy your team is getting is a queer?' 'Watch your ass around the new guy—I hear he's a homo.'"

Mike interjected at this point. "My accident pretty much outed both of us. It's pretty hard to keep it a secret that you love someone when they're on death's door and then in the hospital for six weeks. But go on." He was half dying to hear the rest of Wes's story, and half restraining himself from fleeing the room.

"Maybe a couple months after you moved into this office, I happened to be sitting next to Staib at a discussion group after church one day. He said something to me about how he'd heard that the queer that messed up his sister was just promoted to Captain, and how gays shouldn't even be allowed in the department, let alone as Captains. And I said something about how our new guy was gay, but seemed all right."

Wes paused. "And Staib got all quiet, and just suddenly left. I mean, I already thought he was weird, so I didn't think much of it, and didn't see him again for months after that, until I ran into him down at the motor pool one day."

"He asked me what the name of our new guy was, and I told him. And he laughed, and said how funny it was—he had a buddy at high school who had the same name, but it couldn't possibly be the same guy. So he asked me to describe you, and I did, and he said you had to be the same guy, and funny, in high school, you didn't seem like a fag."

Mike sighed. "And you believed him, that we were buddies in high school?"

"I guess I didn't really think about it—I mean, you're about the same age, so it was plausible. He seemed awfully certain of it. And that was it, until just a few weeks ago, when he said he was totally sure you were the same guy, and he wanted to surprise you with a prank you'd pulled on him once in high school, and did I think I could get your address and phone number. I told him something like, do I look like the White Pages, and he should just look you up. But he said there were three Michael Stokers in the book, and he wasn't sure which one. And he wanted to make sure he had your, uh, boyfriend's name right. He said he thought he knew, but he wasn't sure, so he wanted to check first, because it was important for one of his tricks. I told him I didn't know it—didn't know who he was, even. And so—that time when I was looking at your pictures from your old station—"

Mike finished for him. "You were just trying to get me to say a name. And I did. So you went back to him and confirmed he had the right guy." Mike sat there with his elbow on his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He sat there for a good minute before he said anything.

"Do you even _know_ what you did, Wes?" he said, finally.

"I … I know I shouldn't have said anything to him. I'm really sorry," Wes said, in a tiny voice.

"But do you _know_ what you _did_?" Mike repeated, no longer using the level tone he'd employed at the beginning of the conversation.

"No," Wes admitted.

"You connected the dots for him. Staib never gave a shit about me—he just wanted to get at Johnny. Because, you see, Johnny really _did_ go out with his sister, and he really _did_ dump her—because she was nuts, actually—and Staib had some fucked up personal vendetta against Johnny because apparently she went even _more_ nuts later, and Staib blamed Johnny."

"But—but—" Wes stammered.

"Let me finish," Mike said. "I don't know if Staib would've found Johnny, would've connected the two of us eventually, without your help. But he used _you_ to get to information about _me_ that led him to _Johnny_. So no matter what you think you did, know this: you helped lead a sick, violent person to a guy he had a personal vendetta against, so he could make his life miserable, trash his house, and, let's not forget, beat the crap out of him. No, it wasn't just that shiner you couldn't keep your eyes off yesterday—Johnny's still pissing blood, and he still can't take a deep breath, or yawn, or sneeze, without pain."

Wes cringed. "I'm really, really sorry. I really didn't know what I was doing—I swear! If I'd thought he was gonna hurt anyone—"

Mike slammed his palms down on his desk, and Wes jumped.

"You just said, Wes, that his little sermon was _vicious_! How in the _world_ could you not be suspicious that maybe he was up to no good? _How_?" Mike shouted.

Wes squirmed in the chair for a few seconds. "He … said something about papering the trees with pink toilet paper, and putting some pink flamingos in the front yard, and stuff like that. High school pranks, but … pink."

"Well, do you want to know what he _actually_ did? He slashed all four tires on both our vehicles. He put shit—actual _shit_—through our mail slot, on one of the hottest days of the year. He painted 'faggot' in red paint on the door of this office, and shoved frozen piss under the door to ripen. He smashed the plate glass window in our living room, and threw eight gallons of hot pink enamel paint on the front of our brick house. And, oh yeah, he and his pal hit Johnny in the gut so hard his breathing muscles were paralyzed for long enough that they could break three of his ribs, kick him in the face, and kick him in the back so hard he had kidney damage! Does that sound like _pranks_ to you?"

"No," Wes whispered.

"And now it's looking like we may have to go through a trial, because one of these fucks thinks his lawyer can get him off, and how fun do you think _that's_ going to be for us? How good for our careers?"

"I'm really, really sorry," Wes said again. "I wish there were something I could do to make it up to you guys."

"You wanna pay for eight tires, and a plate glass window? You wanna replace three weeks worth of shifts into Johnny's sick time? You wanna round up subs for all of Johnny's shifts—oh, and they have to be Captains, by the way—until he can work again, since you delivered him right into the hands of a sadistic, vicious man and his henchman?" Mike was breathing hard, and couldn't help coughing a few times. "Because that's what you did, Wes—you delivered him to that psycho. _You_ did."

"I know," said Wes.

"I can forgive the rest of the crap—it's just stuff, and stuff doesn't matter." Mike looked right at Wes. "But honest to goodness, Wes, I don't know how the hell I'm gonna deal with the fact that you delivered Johnny right into the hands of that psycho. I really don't."

"I don't blame you," said Wes. "I really screwed up. I never meant for—"

"I know, I know—you never meant for anyone to get hurt. It was all just going to be fun and games, in various shades of pink. Ha, ha, ha—pink, for the queers. Get it?" Mike shook his head in disgust.

"I'm sorry," Wes repeated for the umpteenth time.

"Get out of my office, Wes. Just—get out, and go home."

Wes silently got up from the chair he was sitting on, and left Mike's office. He pulled the door shut quietly on his way out.

Mike sat with his elbows on his desk, holding his head in his hands, trying to decide whether he wanted to scream, or cry, or both. He finally settled on neither. He tidied his already neat desk, and went home.

**TBC**


	40. Mad

**Chapter 40: Mad**

.

The bed jiggled ever so slightly—not enough to wake Johnny completely, but enough to bring him to a level where he was aware of the warm body slipping under the covers next to him. He smiled as an arm came over his side and snugged his back in towards the chest of the familiar body behind him. He sleepily took the hand of the arm that held him close, and started slipping back into the deep sleep from which he'd been partially roused.

But as Johnny's consciousness started to drift back downwards, he realized something was wrong with the pretty picture he was enjoying. His eyes snapped open as he came to the conclusion that something was indeed amiss. Unless he'd slept all afternoon—which, from the way the light was coming into the room, didn't seem likely—Mike shouldn't be home. He shifted slightly, and Mike's response was immediate—he pulled Johnny even closer, and put a leg over Johnny's legs, and burrowed his face into the back of Johnny's neck. It felt to Johnny like Mike was trying to completely surround him, as if protecting him from something.

Johnny didn't protest, and didn't try to move away. He twined his fingers into the fingers of the hand splayed across his chest, and felt Mike's face nuzzle into the back of his neck even more strongly. And then, he felt Mike suck in a deep breath, and let it out with a series of silent shudders. And he felt sudden wetness on the back of his neck.

Johnny's ribs protested as he suddenly rolled over in Mike's embrace. As he suspected, Mike's face was streaming with tears. And as Johnny turned towards him, Mike's hands flew up to his own face, and he let out an uncontrolled sob.

"Mikey?" Johnny said. He suddenly wasn't sure what to do with his hands, so just stroked Mike's hair back from his forehead with one hand, and pulled Mike towards him with the other. "What's the matter?"

Mike uncovered his face, reached out with both hands, tenderly placing them on either side of Johnny's face. He kissed Johnny, gently but with intensity, and then cradled Johnny's head to his chest, breathing into Johnny's hair as if it were the source of all oxygen in the room.

Johnny allowed himself to be handled in that way for a short time, sensing Mike's need to be protective. But he needed to find out what that 'something' was that had Mike so shaken up. Johnny pulled back slightly, and looked up into the tear-streaked face of his lover, his best friend, his partner in life.

"Mike, what's wrong? C'mon, babe; you're scaring me here. Did … did something happen to one of the guys?"

Mike immediately shook his head. "No—no, everyone's fine." He let go of Johnny long enough to swipe the back of his hand across his face, removing the tears almost angrily. "Sorry," he said, annoyed at himself for letting Johnny think something like that.

"No, it's okay," Johnny reassured him, now that he knew the worst hadn't happened. But over the last few years, Johnny and Mike had been together for some events that were terrible for both of them, and had seen each other at their worst and most vulnerable. Johnny had seen Mike let go in ways that nobody else ever had. He'd seen Mike rage with fury. He'd seen him go utterly silent for hours on end when he was annoyed at Johnny. He'd seen him shed a tear or two after seeing things on the job that nobody should ever have to see. But Johnny had never seen Mike so upset about anything. "What happened, Mikey?" he pressed gently.

Mike still didn't say anything, but his breathing was settling into a normal rhythm, no longer punctuated by the shudders that came with the attempt to suppress crying. Johnny passed him some tissues, and Mike blew his nose and wiped his face.

"Sorry," he said again, as he tossed the tissues into the wastebasket. "It's … it's all just … too much." He inhaled deeply, and let his breath out again. "Jesus. Bawling like a girl." He coughed, with a deep, rattling sound that alarmed Johnny.

Johnny sat up for a moment, fluffed up the pillows, and lay back onto them, gently pulling Mike back down with him so his head rested on Johnny's chest and shoulder on his undamaged side. They couldn't look each other in the eye that way, but Johnny knew that when something was really bothering Mike, he could sometimes talk about it more easily if he didn't have to look at anyone.

Johnny looked at the clock. It was just before three in the afternoon, and Mike should have been at the office. Something happened at work, Johnny realized. Something so terrible that Mike had to leave.

Mike lay on his side, with his head resting on the uninjured half of Johnny's chest. He found his hand traveling to the injured area on the other side of Johnny's ribcage. Mike gently laid his hand over the place where three of Johnny's ribs had been cracked by a blow from the toe of Staib's boot, just over a week ago. He let his hand rest there for many seconds, and then reached farther down, and slightly towards Johnny's back, to the place where another kick had severely bruised his kidney. Finally, his hand traveled upwards to Johnny's face, and Mike gently traced around the orbit of Johnny's blackened eye.

"I'm doing okay, babe," Johnny said quietly. "Everything's a little better every day." He caught Mike's hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed the knuckles, the back of his hand, the palm. He patiently waited, until Mike finally spoke.

"Wes Harris handed you to Staib on a silver platter."

That was not what Johnny was expecting to hear.

"Uh, say again?"

"Wes knew Staib from church. Knew from a guest sermon that Staib did that he was rabidly anti-gay. When I joined the AFIU, Wes apparently mentioned me to Staib, along with all the rumors that come with me, and then Staib started trying to get information about me and you out of Wes. And Wes managed to confirm for him that you were with me, and then he knew how to get to you," Mike summarized tersely.

"Um." Johnny wasn't sure what to say. "Uh, how do you figure that?"

Mike sighed. "That weird business, yesterday, when Wes came up to the office while you were there, and kind of apologized, but we didn't know for what?"

"Uh huh?"

"He wasn't kidding that he had something to apologize for. Today, after a morning you just wouldn't believe, he just flat out told me that he'd been feeding info to Staib, who'd fed him some bullshit story about me being a long-lost high school buddy of his, and wanted to find me so he could pull some pranks. Wes feels guilty as hell, and he god-damned well should, because it was a stupid, shitty thing to do. And it was pretty clear that if Wes hadn't thought it might be a little fun to mess with the queers, he wouldn't've said a thing to Staib."

"Feeding info?" Johnny frowned. "Like what?"

"Wes knew your name, after that little scene I told you about with the station pictures—so he unwittingly verified to Staib that the guy he'd been looking for was in fact connected to me. And Wes knew which of the three Michael Stokers in the phone book was me, so he got our address and phone number that way. So, really, in a way, it's my fault that Staib found you, since Wes is _my_ dumb-ass co-worker."

"Now wait just a second, Mike. First of all, it's not _your_ fault that Wes is an ass. And second of all, you can bet Staib didn't get _my_ phone number from Wes. Only place my number's written down in that whole HQ building is in my personnel file. So what about _that_, huh?"

Mike hadn't thought of that. "Oh. But that doesn't let Harris off the hook—or me, for that matter. If I hadn't played along with his little game with trying to figure out which one you were in the station pictures, he never would've—"

"Stop it, Mikey. Put a lid on that, right now. The way you described that conversation to me—he just asked you who the paramedics were, right?" Johnny softened his words by stroking the back of Mike's hand with his thumb, and nuzzling his cheek in to the top of Mike's head.

"Yeah …"

"And how weird would it have been to say 'none of your beeswax?'"

"Uh, pretty strange, I guess," Mike admitted.

"So yeah, Wes figured out which one of the guys in the station pictures was your boyfriend. I know we try to keep our shit private, but people know, Mike."

Mike frowned. "Like who? Who, at HQ, besides our friends, do you think knows we're together?"

"Chief Livingston, for one. I mean, he's not exactly _at_ HQ, but he _is_ brass. He likes to pretend he doesn't know who you are, but he let it slip once. Said something about 'you and that other guy Stoker.' And if he knows, then other people know." Johnny paused. "I guess, if I think about it, which I usually don't, I like to pretend people don't know too. But anyhow," he continued, "it's not your fault. In no way, shape or form is _anything_ that happened in the last couple weeks your fault. So quit with that."

Mike didn't reply immediately, and he didn't try to turn to look at Johnny. He just let Johnny continue to hold him.

"I know," he said, finally. "I know. But—I came home, right after listening to that weasel tell me about everything he did, and I didn't see you, and then I figured you must be sleeping, and I came in here, just to check on you. And there you were—lying on your uninjured side, with the sheets kicked all the hell all over the place as usual, so those huge bruises just screamed out at me, 'look what they did to him! Look!' And so I looked, and babe, I just lost it. I stood there, just looking at you, and I cried like a baby—but a really quiet baby, 'cause I didn't wanna wake you up—for like, I don't know—a long time. And then you moved, and you mumbled the way you do, and you frowned like you were hurting, and I just had to get in the bed with you, and protect you, and—and—"

Johnny interrupted, and finished for him. "And here we are, all cozy and snuggled up, and those shits are in jail, and the cars are fixed, and the house is fixed, and I'll be good as new in another week or two, and everything is gonna be fine."

"But Wes—" Mike cut himself off, and sighed.

"About that," Johnny said. "Did he seem at all pleased with himself today?"

"No way," Mike said. "He kept apologizing, over and over, and saying how he never meant for anyone to get hurt, and how he wished he could make it up to us somehow, and blah blah blah."

"Let's take another step backwards, here, for a second," Johnny suggested.

"Huh?"

"Just humor me, okay?"

"All right."

"What if Wes hadn't said one word to Staib after he started asking for information? What would Staib have already known?"

Mike had to think for a second. "That Wes had a gay co-worker named Mike Stoker. He wouldn't have had _your_ name, though."

"Think about it, Mike—Staib was the brother of that crazy chick Lynn. Staib already _knew_ my name. From Lynn. And he already knew, from Lynn, that I was hooked up with another fireman, who just got hit by a car and was in the hospital forever, right? So then a couple months later, Wes gets a new co-worker, who walks with a cane, and oh yeah, he's queer, do you think Staib couldn't put two and two together?"

"I guess …" Mike said slowly.

"So all Wes did was tell Staib that yeah, we were an item, right? So Staib knew your name, and my name. And there's only three of you in the phone book—not three of _you_, but—aw, you know what I mean—so how hard would it be to figure out which one was you?"

"I guess," Mike said, "if you weren't sure, all you'd have to do is make a call pretending you were from the fire department and needed something—" Mike stopped in the middle of the sentence. "Shit—I had this call, like three or four weeks ago, on the weekend, from some guy who said he was updating fire department personnel records, and they read my address, and asked if that's the one they should have on file, and I didn't think anything of it! Maybe that was him!"

"Could be," said Johnny. "So do you think that maybe, just maybe, Wes's only real role in all this was just to casually mention that his new co-worker was gay? And to set the wheels spinning in Staib's brain again, that he might be able to find you?"

"Maybe …" Mike said reluctantly.

"And sure, Wes shoulda kept his damned mouth shut about things that were none of his business. He shoulda seen right through the 'high school buddies' bullshit. But he didn't. Some people will believe anything, and ain't it funny how it's often the most closed-minded people who're the most likely to believe stuff that's total crap?"

"Yeah," Mike said, "he seems to not think for himself a whole lot. Even though he's not dumb. It's like, I dunno, like he's used to always having someone tell him what to do and think all the time."

"And here's one more thing," Johnny added. "Don't forget about my phone number. Wes couldn't have possibly given him that—so whaddaya wanna bet that Staib got into the personnel records somehow?"

"Not much," Mike admitted.

"So what it comes down to, is, yeah, Wes screwed up, but chances are, even if he hadn't even run into Staib since the very first time your name came up in conversation, Staib still coulda done everything he did without one more word from Wes. Right?"

"I guess it's possible," Mike conceded. "But that doesn't excuse the fact that Wes gave out private information to someone he should've known was trouble."

"No, it doesn't. And the business about 'he never meant anyone to get hurt'—well, that's some shaky moral ground right there, if you ask me. What'd you say about Staib? That Wes knew he was 'rabidly anti-gay?' Well, I don't know what he was _expectin'_ Staib to do, but if he'd'a stopped to think for half a second, he'd'a prob'ly realized Staib was up to no good," Johnny concluded.

Mike nodded, and coughed a phlegmy cough again. "I think stopping to think for half a second is something ol' Wes forgets a fair amount. I mean, he's not a dumb guy—in fact, I think he's probably real smart. But I think he sometimes gets ahead of himself. Like this morning, at the warehouse fire, he made every mistake you can make when—"

"Whoa, whoa—warehouse fire?" Johnny squinted down at Mike. "And you're coughing, and you're home early—these things all go together, don't they."

"Uh, yeah." Mike quickly told Johnny the story of the warehouse fire, and the suspicious multiple points of origin Marco had noted. "But it looks like it's probably just a case of improper storage of materials. Wes is pretty sure he knows what was in those barrels, just from how the stuff behaved." Mike frowned. "See, he can be really smart about some things, but so damned dumb about others."

"That's the story of life, man. I think the whole IQ thing is really dumb—I mean, there's lotsa guys who I bet have sky high IQs but can't carry on a normal conversation, and can't do stuff like, say, put a patient at ease with small talk. Craig Brice comes to mind, there," Johnny said, rolling his eyes. "Man—he made Captain the same time as me. Can you imagine being on his crew?"

"I'll bet they follow aaaaallll the rules. Aaaaaallll the time."

Johnny hadn't really meant to change the subject, but it seemed like Mike was calmed down, so he didn't go back to the topic of Wes Harris. If Mike brought it up again, that was one thing. But for now, Johnny was content to lie there with Mike's head on his shoulder, and not think about anything from the last two weeks.

"You know what we oughta do?" Mike said, apparently also done with the Wes conversation.

"What's that," Johnny replied.

"I'm home so early, we could go to a cheap show at the movies, and still be back in time for dinner."

"Geez—when was the last time we went to the movies? Sure—why not? We could go to that new Star Wars movie. The title is dumb, but when you think about it, 'Star Wars' sounded pretty dumb too, when it first came out."

"True." Mike said, sitting up. He coughed wetly as he changed into casual clothes.

"You did get that checked out, didn't you?" Johnny said, frowning at the sound of the cough.

"Yeah, yeah. Funny—even though Cap's not even remotely my boss any more, I wasn't gonna go against his orders to get checked out. I'll probably be hacking for the rest of the day, but Dr. Early seemed to think everything would be fine in a day or so. Plus I'm still on antibiotics for the leg, so it's not like I'll get pneumonia or anything."

"Well, you better believe I'm gonna keep my ear on that cough, mister," Johnny warned.

"I'd be appalled at anything else," Mike said. "C'mon—let's go."

"You wanna sit in the front like little kids, or you wanna sit in the back like teenagers?"

"How about in the middle, like adults?"

"Aw, Stoker, yer no fun," Johnny said. But he was smiling hugely as they walked out the door together.

~!~!~!~

"Well, that was actually pretty good." Mike said, as they walked back out to the parking lot after the movie. "But the 'I am your father' part was a bit much, if you ask me."

"Yeah, that's a bit of a stretch. And the bit about 'No, there is another—' whaddaya wanna bet they're setting the princess up to be his sister?"

"Not gonna bet against you on that one, Gage. But still—I thought it was a good adventure movie."

"Sure—definitely. Especially the battles. I love a good space battle," Johnny admitted.

They talked about the high and low points of the movie on the way home.

"Hey, what should we do for dinner?" Mike said, as he backed the truck into the driveway.

"We've got leftovers of Len's chicken—how 'bout just making some chicken sandwiches or somethin'?"

"Good—that's easy. I've really been a fan of easy, lately," Mike said, as they went into the house.

Johnny closed the door behind them and toed his shoes off. "That's good—'cause I'm feelin' pretty easy right now," he said.

"You are, huh?" Mike left his shoes where they fell, and spun around to be face to face with Johnny, who pulled Mike in and reached his hands around to rest at the small of Mike's back.

"Yep."

Mike kissed Johnny, and looked him over carefully. "You still have three cracked ribs."

"Better every day. I'll manage."

Mike sighed, and looked at his feet.

"I just …" He sighed again, and couldn't bring himself to look at Johnny.

"Let's go sit down, all right?" Johnny guided Mike to the living room, and closed the blinds. They sat silently next to each other on the couch.

"I, uh … um … I'm-worried-I'll-hurt-you-but-I-don't-wanna-treat-you-like-a-baby," Mike blurted out all at once. "So what I mean is, we should take a rain check, because … I just won't be able to not think about how they hurt you." He cleared his throat. "Sorry."

Finally, Johnny spoke up. "They mighta hurt us. But they didn't break us. We're still good, you and me. And a rain check is fine. It'll keep."

Mike's eyes teared up as he traced the dark bruise around Johnny's eye, and carefully laid his other hand over the cracked ribs and bruised kidney.

"Mikey?" Johnny said. "I'm fine, honest. Please tell me you're fine, too."

"I—I don't know, Johnny. I think it's just gonna take me a little longer to let go of all of this. So I guess what I need, is for you to be patient with me. Let me be mad for a while."

"Okay," Johnny said simply. "You be mad, and I'll be here to make sure it doesn't eat you up."

"Thanks, babe. I know you will. And I'll be fine, too—it'll just take me a while."

"Okay," Johnny said again. And then, "Love you."

"Love you too. More than I can even wrap my head around."

**TBC**


	41. Recovery

**Chapter 41: Recovery**

_Ten days later._

Johnny looked at his watch, for the tenth time in the last five minutes. It wasn't moving along any faster than the clock on the wall was. He sighed, and went to the waiting room pay phone. He slipped a dime into the slot, and dialed the number.

"_Arson and Fire Investigation, Mike Stoker speaking._"

"Hey—just me."

"_Hi, just you_."

"Listen—Brackett's running late. I'm still waiting. So when you come over, I might still be in the waiting room. If not, Dix'll steer you in the right direction."

"_Okay. I was just heading out, so I'll see you in ten minutes or so_."

"'Kay. Bye."

Johnny returned to the waiting room, and sat, squirming like a kid at his desk on the last day of school, in the uncomfortable chair. Normally, he would wait for Dr. Brackett in the staff lounge, but today it was being used for a meeting. Sitting in the regular ER waiting room felt wrong—he felt like an imposter, sitting with people who were awaiting urgent treatment for themselves or a loved one.

Were he so inclined, he might make a list to calm himself down, like Mike sometimes did, and it might look something like this:

Reasons the waiting room is uncomfortable:

1. The chair sucks.

2. I can't stand waiting.

3. I'm not cleared to work yet, so I couldn't do anything for all those MVA patients that just came in.

4. The chair _really_ sucks.

5. I don't actually know if Brackett is going to clear me for duty.

Johnny fidgeted in the vinyl chair for another few minutes. Finally, he sighed heavily, and gave up on the chair, standing up to pace instead. An elderly woman watched him for a few laps, and finally spoke up.

"Don't worry, young man. They'll take very good care of whoever you're waiting here for. They're the absolute best here. And I should know—my husband has a chronic illness, so we seem to end up here a lot."

Johnny paused in front of the woman, and sat down across from her so he could talk to her without looking down at her. "Oh, I'm not waiting on anyone; I'm just here for me."

The woman looked at him curiously. "Really? You don't look sick, or hurt. Except for that shiner—it's nearly gone, but it must've been a beaut in its prime."

"I _was_ hurt, but I'm better—or at least I _think_ I'm better. I just come here because—well, it's complicated. My regular doctor is one of the ER doctors."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "Isn't that unusual? I didn't even know you could do that."

"Well, I guess it's just because I used to come here a lot for work—when I was a paramedic—and I kinda ended up on the patient end a fair amount, and I don't really like being a patient, but Dr. Brackett knows me, and I know him, and … well, it just kinda ended up that way," Johnny said.

"Oh, a paramedic! I just don't know what we would do without you fellows. I have to admit, the first time we called for an ambulance and firemen showed up at our house, I didn't know what to think. But I think you fellows have come to our house probably once or twice a year in the last few years, and one time I'm _sure_ the gentlemen who came saved Walter's life. But you said 'used to be'—did you change jobs?"

"Yes, ma'am—well, sort of. I'm a Captain now, so I only fill in sometimes as a paramedic. I've been off for a couple weeks, since my ribs got busted up, but I'm hoping the Doc will clear me today."

"Goodness gracious. Yes, I hope so too. From the way you were pacing just now, I'd imagine you don't like not being able to go to work." She looked down at his fidgety hands, and noted the flash of gold. "In fact, I'd wager you probably drive your wife absolutely crazy."

"Uh, that's pretty close to the truth," Johnny said. "Let's just say, it'll be happier at home once I'm back to work."

"I suppose your children must enjoy having you at home, though." The woman must have caught a flash of something in Johnny's face. "Or—don't you have children?"

"No, ma'am."

"I'm sorry—it's really none of my business. Please excuse my rudeness. I didn't mean to pry. I should know better—everyone is always asking me when I'm going to get some grandchildren, and I'm so tired of that I could spit. I'm Mildred Rockwell, by the way, speaking of rude."

"John Gage. You must have kids, then, if people are buggin' you about grandkids."

"Oh yes; we have one son. We're very proud of him—he's a communications specialist in the Navy. I would say he's probably about ten years older than you." She squinted at Johnny. "I think you probably look much younger than your years, just like my son does. At first glance you look twenty-five, but your eyes say you're thirty-five. As does your rank."

Johnny sat back and considered Mrs. Rockwell. "Thirty-three. So I'd say the eyes have it, then."

Mrs. Rockwell tittered. "Oh my! Witty, too. And there I go, being rude again, speculating about your age, right after assuming about children. Shame on me."

"Aw, it's all right. We're just chattin', right?"

"Yes, I suppose we are, aren't we." Mrs. Rockwell sat silently for a minute or so. "It's difficult, isn't it. When people ask us about children, and grandchildren, and we don't have any. I don't think Walter's friends bother him about it too much, but some of my friends … well, they don't take a hint well." She looked back up at Johnny. "Do your friends bother you about not having children?"

"Hmm," Johnny said. "Our friends all know we can't have children. So no, nobody asks."

"Well, all I can really tell my friends is that Paul is certain he won't get married. My friends all just assume it's because his job keeps him at sea for months at a time. So I let them keep thinking that. And why on Earth I'm blabbing all of this to a total stranger is beyond me," she concluded.

"Maybe I remind you a little of your son," Johnny suggested, suspecting from what she said—and didn't say—that he might be more like Mrs. Rockwell's son than she thought.

"Maybe that's it," she said.

They didn't speak after that, each lost in his or her own thoughts.

A minute or two later, Mike strode in through the ER entrance. The last traces of the pain from the infection around the screw above his knee were completely gone from his gait. He scanned the waiting room, and his eyes lit on a dark head, with its familiar barely-regulation hair. He spied an empty seat next to Johnny, and plunked himself down, bumping their shoulders together as they often did in public.

"Hey. Sorry I took so long. Couldn't get a good parking spot."

"'s okay. Still waitin', anyhow." Johnny's foot, crossed over his other knee, was jiggling wildly.

Mike leaned over towards Johnny so their shoulders touched again. "He'll probably clear you, you know. You said yourself, the ribs are still a little sore, but not dangerous."

Johnny sighed again. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. It'd just make me crazy to hafta stay home another week or two."

"I know."

"Yeah, I bet you do." Johnny noticed Mrs. Rockwell looking at them curiously, so he decided to throw her a bone, and confirm her suspicions. "I guess I've probably been driving you crazy, huh, with nothing to do all day."

"I didn't say that," Mike said.

"Hmm," said Johnny. Mrs. Rockwell looked back at him with raised eyebrows, and he grinned at her. "Still remind you of your boy?" he asked, winning a baffled look from Mike.

"More than ever," Mrs. Rockwell said.

"Johnny?"

Johnny and Mike both turned to Dr. Brackett's voice.

"Oh, hi, Doc. You ready for me?" Johnny asked.

"Yes. Sorry about the wait, but you know how it goes. Come on back," said Brackett.

Johnny and Mike stood up, and Johnny looked back at Mrs. Rockwell. "Hope everything turns out all right for your husband. Nice chattin' with you."

"Likewise, thank you. Good luck getting back to work."

"Thanks."

Johnny and Mike followed Brackett to the single empty treatment room.

"What was that all about?" Mike asked.

"Oh, I reminded her of her son," Johnny said. "I'll tell you later."

"Okay."

"All right, Johnny—hop on up," Brackett instructed. He pulled the x-rays from three weeks ago out of an envelope and jammed them into the lightbox.

"First of all—how are you feeling?"

"Good, Doc. Still sore, but that feeling that something is wrong or broken is gone."

"All right. We'll get a new set of x-rays, and blood and urine samples, and if those look good, then I'll sign you off." Brackett handed Johnny a plastic cup. "You know the drill—fill 'er up."

Johnny departed into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door.

"He's really itching to get back, Dr. Brackett. But please—well, I know you wouldn't, but please don't let him go if he'll hurt himself," Mike said quietly.

"Has he been behaving himself?" Dr. Brackett asked Mike. "Taking it easy, like he's supposed to?"

"You better believe it. I had to remind him a few times early on, but, uh, yeah. Mostly," he amended, recalling a couple of incidents where he'd been party to Johnny not entirely behaving himself. "Nothing risky at all," he added.

They heard flushing, and water running, and Johnny handed his sample cup to Dr. Brackett.

"I'll get this down to the lab while you're getting your x-rays." Brackett said, just as the door swung open. A scrubs-clad tech that Johnny didn't know entered with a wheelchair. Brackett handed the tech an order slip, and Johnny was whisked away.

"Uh, Doc?" Mike asked, as Brackett handed the sample and a lab slip off to an orderly.

"Yes, Mike?"

"What are his chances?" Mike asked tentatively. "Because he really, _really_ needs to get back to doing something useful. But, like I said, only if it's safe."

Brackett crossed his arms and sighed. "Look, Mike. I know he goes stir crazy when he's down. But even though he's a Captain, he could still end up doing the same work he always did, every time he goes on a shift. You know that, and I know that, and he knows that. But, given how many other injuries I've seen him through, and the speed with which he always manages to recover, I'd say the chances he'll be ready today are pretty good. To be honest, I'm more concerned about the kidney than the ribs."

"He was doing some weights yesterday—nothing really heavy, just testing things out, you know? And he seemed fine. And believe me, I'd be able to tell if he were trying to hide pain."

"Oh? What's his tell?" Brackett asked.

"He doesn't fidget nearly as much. If he's sitting still, it's time for a painkiller. I figured that out over the last few weeks. And he's been his usual rabbitty self lately—never stops moving. Also, he's not sleeping all the time any more. The first ten days after he got hurt, this time, he slept probably sixteen or eighteen hours a day. I wonder if that's why he heals so fast."

"Could be," Brackett said, nodding.

The door swung open, and Dixie McCall entered.

"Well, hello, stranger!" she said to Mike. "How are things going? I heard through the grapevine that the guys that did this to Johnny are in jail—that must be a relief."

"It sure is. One of 'em is going for a plea bargain. The other—well, it looks like the assault charges may go to trial." Mike shook his head. "That'll be real hard."

Dixie frowned. "Yes, it would. I had a friend who was assaulted, a few years ago. She said the assault was the worst day of her life, and the day she had to testify at the trial was the second worst, and the day the guy got out of jail was a close third. It's all just such an invasion of privacy for the victims."

"You're not kidding. You and I both know that Johnny isn't the anxious type, but he's practically making himself sick over this whole thing."

"Hmm," Dixie said, nodding. "He's always been a very private person. I can see this being very hard for him."

Brackett broke in. "Strange as it sounds for a doctor to have a lawyer friend, I have a good friend who works in criminal law. One of her specialties is victims' rights. Let me know if you need a lawyer in all of this—I'm sure she'd be happy to help. I imagine she'd find your case very interesting."

"Victims' rights, huh?" Mike said. He shook his head. "I'll tell you, sometimes it seems like there aren't many at all. But thanks, Doc—hopefully we won't need to take you up on that offer—I mean, hopefully there won't be a trial. But if there is going to be—well, I think we might just need your friend's help."

The door burst open again, and the x-ray tech backed in with Johnny in the wheelchair. "I'll bring the pictures up as soon as they're ready," the tech said.

"Thanks, Chuck," Dr. Brackett replied. "And now—Dix, I believe you're the one with the magic touch—let's get that blood sample for a kidney panel so we can get all the answers we need from the lab."

Johnny rolled up his sleeve, and Dixie made quick work of getting a tube filled with blood. "Kel, Johnny's hemoglobin was low last time he was in—should we get that checked, too?"

Johnny rolled his eyes. "I've been eatin' so much liver an' steak an' such I think I'm turnin' into Iron Man. But check it anyhow; gotta know if it's all right."

"A couple more things, Johnny. I do want to look at your rib cage, and the bruising around your kidney," Brackett said.

Johnny cooperatively stripped off his shirt. Brackett watched as he did so, and was glad to see no stiffness or hesitation in his movements. He quickly examined Johnny's ribcage. "All right—that looks fine."

"You were just watching how he moved while he took his shirt off, weren't you. You didn't really need to see his ribcage," Mike said.

Brackett's eyebrows climbed up towards his hairline. "I see you don't miss a trick, do you."

"Yeah, Doc; never play cards with this guy. He'll pick up your tell in five minutes, and has a poker face like you wouldn't believe," Johnny said, buttoning up his shirt.

"How long till you get the labs back, Doc?" Mike asked.

"Probably an hour or so. Do you need to get back to work right away, Mike?"

"Nah, I've just got a report to finish, but it'll be quick. Did Dr. Early tell you about how three other guys and I were in here for chlorine gas exposure on a job the other day?" Mike asked.

"He certainly did—we always go over any unusual incidents like that. I was glad to hear you were all okay," said Brackett. "What did the chemical turn out to be, anyhow?"

"Well, the Hazmat team got samples later, and it was just what my colleague thought—calcium hypochlorite. And get this—there's two forms of the stuff, and one is less stable than the other. The warehouse owner thought he had the stable kind, but he actually had the unstable kind, and it wasn't stored properly. It decomposed, and heated spontaneously. So there were several ignition points, which usually points to an intentionally set fire, but in this case was just improperly stored material. So my colleague and I are writing it up for the state and the insurance company. He does the chemistry parts, and I do the fire/arson parts."

"Sounds like an interesting case," said Brackett. "So—why don't you two go get some lunch, and come back in an hour or so. I'll see in my office with the x-rays and the lab results, and we'll take it from there."

"Okay, Doc." Johnny knew better than to press Brackett for answers before he had the test results. "C'mon, Mike—we've got enough time to grab Chinese or something. Doc, Dix—you want us to bring you anything back?"

They shook their heads. "I brown-bagged it today," said Dixie.

"And I probably won't eat till later," said Brackett. "But thanks for asking."

"All right," said Mike. "We'll see you in an hour or so, then."

Dixie observed as Kel watched Johnny and Mike leave the ER.

"Kel?" she inquired.

Brackett made a sniffing sound as he shook his head. "I still can't quite get over it," he said.

"What, those two? Come on, Kel. They're perfect for each other. I mean, Johnny's so happy, and mature. And I didn't know Mike at all, really, before I figured out that they'd gotten together, but I'm pretty sure he's mellowed out an awful lot."

"But Johnny Gage, the terror of the nurses at Rampart, solidly settled down with another man? I know, I know—it's been over a year and a half since I knew about them, and I don't disapprove. I'm not that old fashioned, or narrow minded. I guess it just shows how we didn't really know Johnny as well as we thought we did. I mean, I never thought—you know." He studied Dixie. "Did you have any inkling? I mean, before they got together?"

Dixie frowned. "Well, I know he was serious about wanting to date all those nurses. But I also noticed there were a few times, a couple of months long, where he didn't make any moves on any of my girls at all. I always figured there was a reason for those lapses. I teased him about it once, and he gave me some kind of flippant response, like he was giving them a break for a while, but I could tell I'd made him really uncomfortable, so I let it drop. And then, about, what—just over two years ago—I saw the two of them together for the first time, right after Mike dislocated his shoulder at a brush fire, and the whole thing just fell into place."

"What did?"

"Well, that he dated men as well as women—those lapses, remember? And I bet it wasn't his plan in life, to find true love with a man. One who had been under his nose for years. And how _that_ came to pass, I would _love_ to know."

"Well, I suppose I don't have your innate, ah, curiosity, Dix, but the two of them are certainly not what I expected."

"I don't think they're what Johnny expected, either. Though, sadly, he did make some kind of comment about everything that's been happening to them lately being something they'd expected would happen someday."

"Hmm," Brackett said. "I heard that the guys that did this were both from the fire department. I have half a mind to call the Fire Chief and let him know what's been going on in his department. This is a little more than harrassment."

"Now Kel, you wouldn't _actually_—"

"No, no," Brackett assured her. "I know it would probably just make more trouble for them. I mean, I'm imagining there's probably no written regulation prohibiting men in the department from being involved with other men, but I would imagine they both feel like they have to watch their backs. I know, it's not a good idea to stir things up."

"Especially now," said Dixie.

"Especially now," Kel agreed.

There was a quick knock at the door, and the x-ray tech popped in with a large envelope.

"All right, Dixie; let's see if we can give Johnny some good news."

He jammed the x-rays up into the holders on the lightbox, and examined the new x-rays side by side with the old ones."

Brackett shook his head. "I don't know how he does it," he said. "Johnny grows bone faster than just about anyone I've ever seen."

"Looks pretty clean, doesn't it," Dixie replied.

"Looks more like six weeks later than three weeks. Now all we need is some good lab work, and we can make Johnny a happy man. C'mon, Dix—it's pretty slow around here right now. Let me buy you a cup of coffee."

"You're on," said Dixie.

~!~!~!~

An hour later, Johnny tapped on Dr. Brackett's office door.

"Come in!"

Johnny and Mike entered the room, and sat down in the chairs opposite Brackett's desk.

Brackett didn't waste any time getting to the point. "Good news, Johnny. All your bloodwork looks good, and there was no detectable blood in your urine. You're cleared to go back to work for your next scheduled shift."

Johnny's face exploded into a grin. "Well, awright! Thanks, Doc! Next C-shift is tomorrow. Roy was gonna fill in for me, but I'll call 'im and let 'im know he's off the hook."

"One thing, though," Brackett said. "If you have any—and I mean _any_—kind of injury in the next six weeks, I want you to be sure to tell whoever's treating you about your recent kidney injury, all right? I don't care if it's a sprained pinkie toe—you tell them."

"Sure, Doc. I'll make sure they give you a call," Johnny said.

Brackett passed a form across the desk to Johnny. "You're a free man. Now, go enjoy the rest of your day off before you have to go back to work."

"You bet I will, Doc. C'mon, Mike—let's get outta here. No offense," Johnny said, looking back at Brackett, "but—well, you know."

"Yeah, Johnny, I know." Brackett smiled as he watched the unlikely pair exit his office.

~!~!~!~

Mike was just finishing his part of the report he and Wes had been working on when there was a knock at the slightly-open door. Mike looked up from his desk, which was now facing the door, and waved Wes in.

"C'mon in, Wes. How's your piece coming?"

"Mostly done. I just have to get a couple more things straight from the distributor that sold the guy that stuff, and I think it'll be wrapped up."

The two coworkers sat there silently for a moment. Mike fidgeted with a pencil, and Wes stared down at the floor.

"Look," Mike said finally. "It's like this. You screwed up. I know it, and you know it. But the reality is, Staib would've found out what he wanted anyhow. After all, he got hold of Johnny's unlisted number, and he didn't get that from you."

Wes didn't say anything.

"He _didn't_ get that from you, right?"

"No. He didn't. I didn't know it. I didn't even know he had his own number," Wes said.

"And I don't really care what you think of my personal life, all right? But we have to work together, and I think we actually work together pretty well when we're not walking on eggshells. So what do you say we sweep up the eggshells, and get the hell past this whole thing."

Wes shifted in his chair, and didn't look Mike in the eye as he spoke. "I want to pay for your window. The one they broke."

Mike raised his eyebrows. "I'd let you if I could, but the insurance company already shelled out, by some miracle."

"Don't you have a deductible?"

"We do, but it's only a hundred bucks for glass, so it's not—"

"Yes it is," Wes said emphatically. "It's worth it, okay? I can't undo anything that happened—and I would if I could, believe me—but I _can_ do _this_. And I know Gage doesn't get full pay for being out for more than a couple shifts on an injury that wasn't job related. So it's worth it, okay? Please let me."

"Okay," Mike said slowly. "Thanks. We appreciate it."

"I'll bring you a check tomorrow," Wes said.

"Thank you," Mike replied.

Just as Wes was standing up to go, Mike spoke up again. "Hang on a second."

Wes stopped in his tracks.

"You're not in any legal trouble because of any of this, are you? I mean, I noticed that night at the police station that they kept you longer than they kept me."

Wes sighed. "No. They're not charging me with anything. Maybe because nothing I did was illegal. Or maybe because they believed that I knew nothing about the assault. Which is true. I don't know. I'm not even sure what I deserve." He frowned, and continued. "Can I ask you—what caused your, uh, change of heart? Last time we talked about this, I thought you were ready to deck me."

Mike studied Wes carefully before replying. "It was Johnny. He convinced me that anything you said was probably just confirming to Staib what he already knew, and that I shouldn't be so hard on you."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Anyhow. I'm done with my part of the report," Mike said. "I just need to look it over, and then I'll bring it down to your office."

"Sounds good," Wes said, turning gratefully to the door.

"See you later."

**TBC**


	42. Reaction

A/N: The end of this chapter does in fact peek just a smidgen past the bedroom doors, which I've avoided in the rest of the story, but nothing graphic in the slightest. If you don't want to read that part, just stop after Johnny chugs the glass of milk down and puts the empty glass in the sink.

**Chapter 42: Reaction**

Johnny dropped his return-to-work forms off at HQ, and stopped at his Battalion headquarters to leave a copy for Chief Livingston before heading home. He was intensely relieved to be able to go back to work. The last time he'd missed more than one shift was when Mike had been in the hospital, and he'd just been a regular firefighter/paramedic back then, so getting subs wasn't such a terrible burden on the system. Plus, he'd had an immediate supervisor—Captain Stanley—who was entirely sympathetic to his plight.

When he arrived home, he called Roy, hoping to catch him before the family sat down to dinner.

"_Hello_?" said a voice that could be either Joanne or Jenny.

"Hi, it's Johnny."

"_Hey, Johnny. Everything all right?_"

Johnny could tell from the wording that he was speaking with Joanne.

"Sure—just great, actually. I was just calling to tell Roy that he's off the hook for tomorrow—Brackett just cleared me for work!"

"_That's terrific! He's out picking up a pizza right now_—" Johnny winced, because he still couldn't think of picking up a pizza without being reminded of the assault in the alley— "_because _I," Joanne said proudly, "_just got back from work!_"

"Work?"

"_Yep—I got on the list to be a substitute teacher at the elementary schools in the district, and I got a placement today! And if things go well, next year I may be back to teaching full time, for the first time since before Chris was born._"

"Wow, that's great, Joanne! Anyhow—could you ask Roy to give me a call when he gets back?"

"_Sure, Johnny. Good luck tomorrow—I'm sure everything will be fine._"

"Yeah, me too. Brackett would never sign me off unless he was sure. And I know for a fact that he and Mike had a word while I was getting x-rayed, so anything I mighta been trying to hide, which I wasn't, for sure didn't stay that way, but I wasn't, so it didn't matter."

"_Riiiiight_," said Joanne. "_I'll ask Roy to call you when he gets home_."

"Or, after dinner is fine too—don't want that pie to get cold."

"_Okay. Have a good night. Say hi to Mike_."

"Will do. Bye."

Johnny hung up the phone, and looked at the clock—five thirty. Mike was running a little late, but not so late Johnny was worried. Just then, he heard engine sounds outside, and saw the maroon pickup in the driveway. He stopped in at the kitchen to check the tuna casserole he'd put in the oven a little while ago, and then went to the foyer to greet Mike.

The door swung open and Mike stepped in.

"Hey, babe." He caught Johnny for a quick kiss, and took his shoes off. "You're lookin' pretty happy tonight."

"Well, of course I am," said Johnny.

"Why's that?" Mike asked, grinning.

"You know perfectly well _why_," Johnny replied, joining in the game.

"Because you know you're gonna get some later, right?"

"Oooh, am I?"

"You better believe it. You're officially off the twenty-one-day disabled list, so I intend to have my way with you. Plus, I believe Dr. Brackett _did_ instruct you to enjoy the rest of your day off before you have to go back to work. So I'll just have to make sure that happens."

"Oh, that's right—doctor's orders. I still have my paramedic card, so I ain't gonna ignore an order from medical control, now, am I?"

"Sounds like a good policy." Mike set some papers down on the bar in the kitchen. "I just have one question, though: how close is dinner to being ready?"

"Too close, Mikey," Johnny said mournfully. "Too close."

"Hmm," Mike said, thumbing absently through the papers. "Guess I'll just have to wait till after dinner, and dishes, and maybe the nightly news, and—oh, here it is." He pushed something across the bar to Johnny.

Johnny frowned at the paper, as if it had been responsible for ending the flirting game. "Huh? A hundred bucks, from Wes Harris?"

"Yep." Mike tossed the rest of the pile in the wastebasket.

"Okay—uh, what's the story there?"

"I think," Mike said slowly, "that maybe he and I have come to an understanding. We've shown before that we can work together really well, no matter what he knows about me. But he fucked up, big time, and he knows it. I asked if he's in any legal trouble—they kept him at the police station way longer than they kept me, that night, so I was wondering. But he says no charges are being filed against him. He almost sounded like he wished they were. I mean, I honestly think he really feels terrible, Johnny. But last time he and I talked about this thing, which we've been avoiding like the plague for the last week, I was just so furious that I just couldn't see that. He desperately wants to do something to fix anything he might have caused, I think, because he just blurted out that he wanted to shell out for the window, and I said no, because the insurance company already said they'd pay, but he wanted to cover the deductible, so I let him. We can, I don't know …"

"We can put it towards the two new sets of tires we had to buy, is what we can do," Johnny said. "I mean, a hundred bucks doesn't begin to cover it, but it doesn't hurt, either."

"True," said Mike. "At first—well, I wasn't sure if I even wanted to take the check, let alone cash it. But—I think we should."

"Definitely. If he wants to try to make amends, and we don't let him, that ain't playin' nice, I think."

"I guess so," Mike said. He shook his head. "I dunno. I keep going back and forth between being royally pissed at him, and kind of feeling sorry for him. But what you said, last week, about him probably not actually giving Staib anything he didn't already have—well, I think you were right. So I've kind of been trying to hold onto that, you know?"

Johnny was listening as he drained the broccoli in a colander. "Uh huh. I guess it's easier for me to see, from the outside looking in, I guess, but from what I saw that one day at your office, he really feels awful."

"Yeah."

Johnny pulled the casserole out of the oven. "The other thing," he said, as he set the dish down on a trivet on the table, "is that we had all these crimes done against us, and we never even really _saw_ the guys. You know? I mean, you saw Staib, in the parking lot, but he's in jail now. And sure, I saw the guys, sorta, when they got me in the alley, but they were just faceless thugs. But Wes is right there in front of you, every day. So I kinda wonder—and don't take this the wrong way, okay?—I just kinda wonder if maybe you're sorta puttin' more of your anger on Harris than he really deserves, just because _he's_ right there, and Staib ain't."

Mike nodded slowly. "You know, I thought the same thing on my drive home." He put plates and silverware on the table, as Johnny set down a glass of milk at his own place and a glass of ice water at Mike's.

They dished food up onto their plates. Neither one of them said anything for a minute or two. Johnny was chewing really slowly, and not loading his fork up between bites. Mike didn't interrupt the train of thought that was obviously running through Johnny's mind.

"I guess, if our situations were reversed—if it'd been _you_ that got beat up in the alley—I'd be a hell of a lot madder than I am. But as it is, I guess I'm kind lettin' it go. I mean, I'm all tied up in knots about whether there's gonna be a trial, an' all the shit that's gonna stir up for us, but that's kind of a separate thing from bein' mad at those two assholes, who I've never even really _seen_."

Johnny pushed some food around on his plate as he continued. "And I guess I'm kinda able to let it go because I've had a lotta times in my life where I coulda been _real_ mad at certain people, for a long time, and I kinda figured out that if I didn't learn to let shit go, it'd eat me up from the inside out. So I don't want you to think I'm taking this thing lightly—I just wanted to kinda say why I maybe can let it go easier than you. And that I don't blame you for _not_ lettin' it go easy."

Mike nodded. "I understand. I know you aren't just blowing it off." He chewed and swallowed a bite. "You know I sometimes have trouble not thinking about what I don't wanna think about. Not as bad as I used to, a few years ago, but—well, you've seen me do it—going over, and over, and over stuff. I sometimes envy you for having that on/off switch for shit you don't want to think about."

Johnny began plowing through his supper like he was in an eating contest. "It's handy. I don't know where it came from. An' I don't really know what happens to the thing I'm not thinkin' about—where it goes when I shut it off. I guess you're just born that way, or not."

"I guess so." Mike worked on another bite of casserole, and, uncharacteristically, talked while he was chewing. "But hasn't there _ever_ been a time when there was something you just _couldn't_ get out of your head?"

Johnny nodded. "Sure there was. Like, a while back, when Roy and I had that call where my good buddy Drew Burke got hit by a car, and he didn't make it. It took me a couple weeks before I wasn't just thinking about it the whole time—what could I have done different, what if the radio channels hadn't been so busy, what if, what if, what if." He dished himself up some seconds. "And when you got hit—man, that brought up bad shit, partly from Drew's accident, but mostly because—well, 'cause you were hurt so bad an' I just didn't know what to do. I even pried info out of Len and Washington, who saw the guy hit you, about who the guy was and what happened and all. Man, I made a big movie in my head of that whole scene. Played it over and over and over in my head while you were layin' there in the ICU, knocked out, on the vent."

"What got you out of the cycle?" Mike asked.

"You woke up, and you needed me," Johnny said simply. "You needed me _there_, and not running a movie through my head." He moved some broccoli from one side of the plate to the middle. "So _this_ whole thing? It's a _lot_ easier to turn off."

"Okay," said Mike. "It's good to understand why you're getting past it faster than me. Makes me feel less, I don't know … less broken, I guess."

They ate for a little while.

"Guess I oughta call whoever's on tonight at the station, just to see if there's anything I need to catch up on," Johnny said finally. "Man, I've been out of the action so long I can't even remember what shift is on today!"

"A-shift," Mike said. "I looked at the shift calendar before your appointment."

"Great—I'll talk to Len after dinner."

"All right—I'll be cleaning up anyhow. But after that, Gage—you are _mine_."

"All yours, babe," Johnny agreed, grinning. "Putty in your hands."

They finished eating, and Mike began cleaning up the kitchen while Johnny sat in the living room to call Len Sterling at the station.

"_L.A. County Fire Station 93, Firefighter/Paramedic Yang speaking._"

"Well, Henry, that sure is a mouthful! How's it goin'? I'm guessin' you're not a daddy yet, or you wouldn't be there right now."

"_Hey, Johnny! Nope—no baby yet, but any second now. I keep telling Melinda that if she's not sure she's in labor, she's not in labor. She still calls me twice a shift. But I can take it. After all, I haven't had to carry a ten-pound basketball around in my abdominal cavity. Ever. So the least I can do is answer the phone twice a shift. And—how are you doing, anyhow? You gonna be back soon?"_

"Yep! Tomorrow. So I was just hoping to talk to Len for a minute, just to see if there was anything I needed to catch up on."

"_Tomorrow? That's great! Hang on a second, and I'll get Len for you. See you in the morning,_" Yang said, as he set the phone down to get Len.

"_Captain Gage!_" Len exclaimed. "_I hear you're back in service._"

"Yep—good as new. Tail end of the shiner still shows, but that's about it. Just calling to see if there's anything I should be filled in on before I turn up in the morning."

"_Well, nothing really spectacular. Well, I take that back. B-shift had a supply line rupture; that counted as spectacular, from Jeff's description, but nobody got hurt and there didn't seem to be any damage to the pump. Luckily it happened on a call where there were two other engines supplying attack lines, and the fire was almost under control anyhow. We've got the pump testing company scheduled to come out next week just to check her out, so we're just keeping a close eye on her in the mean time. That's all I can think of, really. Plus everyone sends their greetings._"

"Man, I'm sure glad I'm gonna be back. Taking time off for something really serious—well, I've done that before, and weirdly, that was kinda easier to take than just having to bide my time for a coupla cracked ribs." He frowned, deciding whether he wanted to say the next thing that was on his mind. "Plus, I hated the constant reminder that I was off work because I got beat up by a couple of thugs from the department. Pisses me off. And there's not a damned thing to be done about it."

Len sighed on the other end of the line. "_You know what, John? It really pisses me off, too. And it pisses me off that I can't just go to the Fire Chief and tell him what's been going on in his department without jeopardizing things for you and Mike. But I did have a thought along those lines the other day. Hear me out on this, all right?"_

"Okay …" Johnny said, not entirely sure he was going to like what Len had cooked up.

"_I have a meeting with the Chief of Operations next week. I know him well enough to know that he'd be pissed as a pig in a football factory to know that someone from another division caused someone from _his_ division to have to miss three weeks of shifts, by committing a cowardly crime based solely on his personal dislike of that individual's private life. What I'm figuring to do is get him all riled up about what happened, and then, once he's furious, spring it on him exactly what the other fellow was objecting to. He can't exactly back down and say, 'oh, well if _that's_ why, then it's perfectly okay.' I know him well enough to know that no matter what he thinks of the controversial issue at hand, he won't do a turnabout once he finds out what it is."_

Johnny thought for a second, and shook his head. "I dunno, Len. I mean, he'd for sure ask you who you were talkin' about, right?"

"_I wouldn't tell 'im who you were, or Mike. But I sure as hell would tell 'im who Staib was. You and I both know that anyone who's convicted of a felony is out of a job. And you already said he's copping a plea, so it's pretty sure he'll have a felony conviction on his record."_

"Yeah," Johnny said sourly, "unless they bargain it down to a misdemeanor. Brackett said in his report that I sustained additional permanent damage to an already damaged kidney, which the detective said would make it aggravated battery, which is a felony. But I really don't know what he's gonna end up with."

"_John, I think in any case that you can be sure that Staib will no longer, and never again, be an employee of the Fire Department after he's convicted of a violent crime against another member of the department, all right? So that's something I can do."_

"Don't you think the Ops chief could figure out who I was, though? And Mike, too?"

"_Probably. But John—you're good at your job. Livingston hates your guts, and he still gave you a good performance review. He never gives anyone better ratings than 'good,' unless they're friends of his. So unless you or Mike really objects, I'd really like to tell the Ops chief about the whole story."_

Johnny sighed. "Okay—I'll talk it over with Mike tonight, if we have time."

"_Time? It's only 1830, pal. Unless y'all are goin' out for a night on the town before a shift you oughta __be able to work it in._"

Johnny snickered. "Oh, but Len—Mikey's got somethin' up his sleeve. He's just finishing up the dishes, and then I am expected to be putty in his hands."

"_Oh, Lord, I didn't _really_ need to know that, John. I would say don't do anything I wouldn't do, but it's pretty much a foregone conclusion that you will, now, ain't it._"

Johnny laughed out loud. "You said it, not me, Len. Anyhow—he's just drying the last of the dishes, so now's my chance. See ya tomorrow, all right?"

"_Yep. 0730, as usual?_"

"You bet. See you then."

Johnny wandered back into the kitchen.

"Were you teasing Len again?" Mike asked.

"Sorta. But then he came out with a real good one." Johnny quoted Len's admonishment and foregone conclusion in his best Georgia drawl, which was really not very good at all, and Mike burst out laughing.

"I'd say he's officially immune to your attempts to bait him, Gage. But anyhow—all I really heard was that you were supposed to run something past me. So shoot." Mike dried and put away the last of the dishes as Johnny told him of Len's idea.

"Sure, why not?" Mike said, after a brief moment of thought. "I mean, yeah, he'll probably figure out who we are, if he doesn't already know it, or suspect it, but I don't think there's too many dark corners of the department where the gossip hasn't spread at this point."

"Yeah. Kinda figures. And at least that way, when the trial comes up—well, our bosses' bosses will already know. Won't get blindsided. But still—it kinda feels like rocking the boat."

Mike looked at Johnny calmly. "Well, maybe the boat needs to be rocked a little."

Johnny sighed. "I guess. What's the worst that could happen, anyhow?"

Mike grinned, and shook his head. "I thought you'd've learned by now to _never_ ask me that question. But I'll tell you: the worst that could happen is that we get canned, and we take ourselves up to Seattle, or the Bay Area, or someplace a little more liberal and tolerant than the City of Angels and smog, and go right back to work. I mean, you spent enough time with your ride-alongs and such with the department in San Francisco that you've got some pretty good contacts up there. And, well, it's San Francisco. And about Seattle—I know for a fact there's a guy in the Seattle department who's out, and they haven't sacked him."

"I s'pose," Johnny said. He shook his head. "All right. I can't _believe_ I'm saying this, but I'll tell Len he can do it. And we'll just see what happens."

"Good." Mike hung up his dish towel, and stood in the middle of the kitchen. "So." He stared at Johnny, penetrating him with his sharp blue eyes. He crooked his finger and gestured for Johnny to come closer.

"Putty-in-your-hands time?" Johnny asked, grinning, but not moving. He leaned with his shoulder on the side of the open doorway from the kitchen to the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, looking at Mike expectantly.

"Mm hmm. Mine, mine, mine."

"Come 'n' get it, Stoker," Johnny suggested, still leaning with his right shoulder against the frame of the doorway.

Mike studied Johnny for a moment. He took two steps closer, but still Johnny didn't move. Mike closed the gap between them, and they stood nose to nose for a moment, before leaning in and nuzzling the provocatively displayed side of Johnny's long neck.

Johnny closed his eyes and uncrossed his arms, letting his hands come down to search for Mike's as Mike's lips and breath trailed hot and cold paths from his ear to his collar. Their hands caught each others, fingers intertwining.

Mike let his kisses trail back up from Johnny's collar to the angle of his jaw. He pulled back to look at Johnny—his eyes were still closed, and his lips were parted slightly, invitingly. Mike took the invitation, and nibbled lightly at Johnny's lower lip. Mike felt Johnny respond instantly; felt his breath pick up and his body arch slightly towards Mike's own. Mike let go of Johnny's inside hand, and slipped his own hand around Johnny's lower back. As quick as a flash, he spun Johnny into the hallway, and used his body to press him up against the hallway wall, still holding him by the waist on one side and the hand on the other, pinning him right where he wanted him, the lengths of their bodies pressed together tightly.

Before either of them knew what was happening, Johnny yelled sharply and pushed forward, his shoulder catching Mike squarely in the chest and sending him careening into the opposite wall. Johnny backed himself against the wall, eyes wide, chest heaving, trembling fists clenched at his side. Mike just stood there in shock and stared at him dumbly, mouth hanging open.

"What …" Mike finally said.

Johnny groaned, as he covered his face with his hands and sank to the floor. He sucked in a deep, shaky breath. "Holy shit, Mikey. Sorry. I just … fuck. I—I … I panicked. Up against the wall. Like in the alley. Man, I'm so sorry."

Mike's heart fell as he understood what had happened. He sat down next to Johnny. He could see Johnny's pulse pounding at his carotid artery, and could see a pallor beneath his normally hearty skin tone. "Sorry, babe," he whispered, not yet daring to touch Johnny. "I didn't think about … shit."

Johnny leaned in to Mike, and Mike put an arm around him. They sat there silently for a minute or two.

"I haven't even thought about it in a couple days until just tonight," Johnny said. "And the wall thing—we do that all the time. I like it," he admitted. "Reminds me I'm yours, and you're mine. I _love_ it. I think it just … caught me off guard." He ran his hands over his face. "Jesus, Mikey—I fucking _shoved_ you."

"No, you didn't," Mike said quietly. "You were pushing away _those guys_. And you didn't hurt me—just startled the crap outta me."

"Way to put a damper on the mood, Gage," Johnny said. "A little freak-out. Nice."

"It's okay, Johnny. C'mon—you look shaky. Lemme get you something." Mike stood up, and reached a hand down to Johnny, who allowed himself to be helped up. Johnny followed Mike to the kitchen. Mike poured Johnny a glass of milk, and put it into Johnny's shaking hands. Johnny chugged the milk down, and set the glass in the sink. He turned around, and approached Mike cautiously. Mike opened his arms, and Johnny gratefully allowed himself to be gently enfolded.

"Sorry," Johnny murmured into Mike's neck. "You know I'd never—"

"Sssshhh. I know. It's okay. I know you didn't mean it." He held Johnny gently for a little while, and then stepped back a bit, brushing the hair away from his eyes while they both stood in the kitchen. "What would feel good to you right now?"

"_You_ would, babe," Johnny said without hesitation. "You _always_ feel good to me. It's just that for a second, I couldn't remember it was you." Johnny pulled Mike closer, and kissed him gently. "Yeah," Johnny whispered. "You feel real good to me. And we still have some doctor's orders to follow." He leaned back in towards Mike, kissed him some more, and began pulling Mike's shirt tails from his trousers. He worked his palms under Mike's shirt, and ran his hands around Mike's bare waistline.

Mike let Johnny steer him down the hallway to their bedroom. It was a short distance, but they stopped every step or two for a touch here, or a kiss there, or to shed an item of clothing. Mike flipped on the light as they entered the dim bedroom, but Johnny caught his hand and shook his head.

"I don't want you to see the bruises," he said softly, not looking Mike in the eye. Nothing hurt at all any more, but he was intensely conscious of the lingering, slowly-fading reminders of the assault.

Mike flipped the light back off. "Okay. It's all right."

Johnny pulled him in fiercely, and made a short project of helping the rest of their clothing to the floor. He backed himself up to the bed, pulling Mike with him. He lowered himself down onto his back, gently encouraging Mike to follow him down.

Mike eagerly followed Johnny's lead, but at the final instant, when gravity had its grip on his body and he was falling towards Johnny, he suddenly caught himself to avoid pinning Johnny on the bed and setting off another panic reaction.

Johnny looked up, and saw insecurity and concern in Mike's gaze.

"God, I love you," he whispered upwards.

"Love you too, Gage," Mike said, still hovering over Johnny, but leaning his face down to catch Johnny's lips with his own.

Johnny traced the curve of Mike's spine with his hands. "It's okay, babe," he said, hooking his arms together around Mike's torso to encourage him downwards. "It's okay. It was just the _wall_, and I was just startled for a minute, and everything's fine now. C'mon, now; be _you_. I want _you_—all forceful and pushy and talky, just the way I like you."

"You like that, huh?"

"You _know_ I do."

Mike lowered his weight onto Johnny, and both heard and felt his half-voiced sigh. He echoed it with his own as he felt the residual tension bleed away from the room. He planted a trail of kisses down Johnny's neck to the hollow where his collarbones met, and relished the feeling of Johnny's hands running through his hair, down his neck and back.

"I think I can arrange some forceful and pushy," Mike said.

"Putty in your hands," Johnny said huskily. "Show me I'm yours, and I'll show you you're mine."

It was fortunate that Johnny and Mike had found time to discuss Len's plan for talking with the Ops Chief while they were cleaning up the kitchen, because, as Johnny had suspected, they did not in fact have any time for discussion that evening.

**TBC**


	43. Fresh Start

**Chapter 43: Fresh Start**

The alarm clock went off in the Stoker/Gage home at precisely 0545. Johnny, eyes still closed, took in a deep breath, smiling to himself as he remembered the previous night, and, at the same time, remembered he would be starting a shift soon. His smile broadened Mike stirred and rolled over to face him.

"Mmm, g'mornin', Captain Gage."

"Mornin', babe."

Mike sat up and rubbed his face. "Remind me again, why we're getting up so damned early?"

"So we don't have to rush. And because you're a morning person. Which you couldn't prove by me at this point."

Mike swung his feet to the floor and yawned loudly as he stood up slowly.

"Hey," Johnny complained, "I thought you wanted me to remind you why were were getting up so early!"

Mike groaned. "I'm in trouble now, I can tell." But he was smiling as he said it. "Lemme just start the coffee, since that's the one thing we can't walk out the door without."

"Hm, and a shower. How 'bout we kill two birds, or maybe even more, with one shower?"

"You're on, Gage. Don't start anything fun without me, though."

Mike went to the kitchen, set up the Mr. Coffee, and then shucked his robe and tossed it into the bedroom on the way to the shower. The coffee maker burbled and bubbled, doing its job noisily and with great gusto. When its task was complete, it waited patiently, holding its product at 190 degrees Fahrenheit. Every minute or so, another drop fell from the filter basket, until finally, there were no more drops left. The full carafe stood silently for some time, waiting to be poured. It waited, and waited, until finally someone came to partake of its brew.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Johnny skidded into the kitchen and yanked a lidded travel mug from a cabinet and filled it to the brim. "Can you throw me some fruit or somethin' in a bag and I'll just eat it in the car? I can get some real food at the station but man, I'm gonna be _so_ late to meet Len if I don't leave in the next thirty seconds!"

Mike laughed as he tossed an apple and a banana in a paper sack, and put the bag on top of the stack of clean uniforms Johnny was trying to manage. "C'mon, babe—you carry your pile, and I'll bring your coffee and fruit out to the car, so we don't have a disaster here."

"Thanks."

Johnny opened the side door, and groaned. "Aw, man, I forgot your truck was behind the Rover. We gotta move it, an' I'm gonna be late, and—"

Mike opened the door of the pickup, and set the small bag of fruit on the passenger's seat. He put the coffee in the cupholder, and relieved Johnny of the stack of uniforms and set them on the narrow back seat. He held the truck's key out to Johnny, who took it gratefully. Johnny pivoted like a basketball player on the court, but stopped short and turned back to Mike, and nearly knocked him down, since Mike was approaching Johnny with the same thought in mind.

They kissed goodbye like it needed to last a month instead of a day.

"Be safe," Mike said. "See you tomorrow morning. I'm glad it's Friday today, so I'll be home when you get back in the morning."

"Love you," Johnny said, as he hopped into the truck. He stuck his head out the window. "Spare key to the Rover's in the junk drawer!"

"I know!" Mike said, as he waved. He returned to the house to make himself presentable, fix a lunch, and depart the house with a bit more of a sense of order than had been achieved at the previous departure.

~!~!~!~

"Mornin', Len!" Johnny said as he strode into the office that the three Captains of Station 93 shared.

"Johnny! Welcome back!" Len looked out the window and frowned. "You're driving Mike's truck—everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah," Johnny said, grinning. "Just had a little trouble gettin' out the door this mornin', and the truck was parked behind the Rover, so we switched cars so I wouldn't be late. So here I am, ten shifts later, back in service. Thanks for the shifts you took, by the way. I think between you, and Roy, and Hank Stanley, Livingston only had to scare up subs for three shifts," Johnny said.

"Well, your boys will be mighty glad to see you after the fellow they had last shift," Len said, putting a few last papers into files.

"Oh?" Johnny pictured an aging old-school Captain who didn't fit at all with the crew at Station 93, where they used as many modern and experimental techniques as they could and still stay within the department's SOPs.

"Yeah, the fellow said you and he went way back; that you worked together as paramedics sometimes when Roy was out."

Johnny laughed. "Craig Brice. Yeah, I can see my crew maybe not having the best time with him. Me an' Roy used to call him 'the walking rulebook' back in the day."

Len chuckled. "You should tell Roy that the term seems to have made its rounds through the department, because I heard it grumbled under the breath of one of your men, who shall remain anonymous."

"Hm, would his first name start with Dan, and his last name start with Fitzgerald?"

"You said it, Johnny, not me. By the way—you know Yang's gonna be out on short notice for a few shifts, any time now, with the baby coming. Any chance you could pull a shift as a medic some time?"

Johnny nodded. "That'd be great. I still owe Henry, big time, for puttin' me up all those nights when Mikey was at Henry Mayo. So sure—give me the word. I'm sure Mike'll be fine with that, too. Plus, truth be told, we could use the extra cash, what with all the tires we had to buy, and me only gettin' half pay for mosta the shifts I missed."

Len frowned. "I forgot about that whole thing—if it's not a line-of-duty injury or illness, you only get, what—three shifts in a row sick time for the same thing, and then you go to half pay?"

"Yeah. Sucks. It's like it was my fault, or somethin'." Johnny shook his head. "Anyhow—that's done an' over with."

Len studied Johnny. "Any word on a trial?"

Johnny sighed. "I guess I'm just startin' to assume that it's gonna happen. And it's gonna suck."

"You know," Len said, "if I were the second guy—the one who didn't go for the plea bargain—I'd be having another think about that, right about now. I mean, if the first guy is singin' like a bird, how is this other guy possibly gonna get off?"

"No clue," said Johnny, hanging his head. "I'm just tryin' not to think about it too much. That's not workin' so hot, though."

"Well, then, let's at least talk about somethin' else, and see if that helps. Here's what I'm thinkin' about lately. I've got my meeting with the Ops chief on Monday, Johnny. Like I mentioned before. And remember the real smart captain I had, way back, who sent me out to the boonies instead of keeping me at his urban station? That's him, twelve years later. He ain't dumb, and he _is_ fairly open-minded, for a fireman of his age. So I just want to double check that you and Mike are okay with me putting a bug in his ear that someone from the Special Services division is in the joint for an assault against someone from Ops, and making that someone miss ten shifts," Len reminded him.

"Yeah," Johnny sighed, "we're cool with that. Mike made a good point last night: maybe some boats need to get rocked a little. Wouldn't have been my first choice, but I've learned to compromise. Worst comes to worst, and we get canned, we can always head north a ways an' start over."

"Honestly, John? I don't think that's gonna happen."

"I dunno. I just don't even know _what_ to expect any more," said Johnny.

The station's tones went off loudly, sending A-shift's paramedics on one last run, right before shift change.

"Except that," Johnny concluded.

~!~!~!~

Mike parked Johnny's white Land Rover in the HQ parking lot, only slightly later than his usual time. He stopped by his mailbox on the way upstairs, and was glad to see a note about a new assignment for him and Wes to start, along with a file of copies about the case.

_Good_, he thought. _A new project, a fresh start_. With any luck, things would get less awkward between him and Wes as time passed, with them both doing the normal things they did in their jobs. Mike put the various papers from his mailbox on his desk, and went to the sixth-floor break room to start the coffee. He grinned to himself as he thought about his extremely delayed first cup of coffee of the morning.

As he waited for the pot to finish brewing, Mike thumbed through some journals lying around the break room. He read the 'case studies' section from one of the journals, in which people submitted interesting or unusual scenarios related to arson or other fire causes. As he read, he thought about his and Wes's case with the multiple points of origin from the spontaneously heating chemicals in the warehouse, and thought it would be an interesting case to submit. As he was thinking, Rhodes entered the room.

"Mornin', Stoker. TGIF, huh?"

"You can say that again, boss." Mike impulsively decided to test the waters on the thought he'd just had. "Hey, I just had this idea I wanted to run past you. That weird warehouse fire, the one with the chlorine compound that decomposed and started the fire?"

Rhodes nodded. "Yeah, that was a weird one, all right—but what's your idea?"

Mike handed the journal to Rhodes, and pointed to the case studies page. "I was thinking I might write it up."

Rhodes nodded. "Partly because it's weird, but you know what else? I got a call from the battalion chief who was IC on that one, and he said he was damned glad you knew what the hell you were doing in there, because it was a nasty, dangerous situation, and someone who hadn't kept up their PPE and SCBA skills wouldn'ta been able to get outta there safely, and they'da gone from a fire with no casualties to maybe a couple—which looks _real_ bad when the casualties happen _after_ the fire is out and when overhaul is almost done."

Mike nodded. "Good point. So, what do you think? Can I work on that in between assignments?"

"Sure, why the hell not?" Rhodes said. "Just lemme run it past the division chief before you submit it, okay? Just in case he wants to run it past Ops, ya know? So they don't feel like they look bad in it, or anything."

"Don't worry—they'll look great. I guarantee a good PR job."

Rhodes chuckled. "You would, wouldn't you." He looked at Mike through narrowed eyes. "Speaking of which," he began.

_Oh, shit_, Mike thought. _Here comes some more crap_.

"We gotta get you started on some of the courtroom stuff. I gotta say, when I first read what some of your old captains said about how you hardly ever let out a peep, I didn't see how we'd ever get you turned into an expert witness. But I don't know what the hell they were talkin' about. You talk great at our meetings—and I was purposely looking for how well you explained that warehouse case at the AFIU meeting on Wednesday. You made sense, and you answered people's questions without hemming and hawing, but also without making shit up to look good. And a huge thing—people sit up and pay attention when you talk. It's like that commercial, where when someone says 'E.F. Hutton,' and everyone in the room magically shuts the hell up and listens."

Mike laughed. "Well, to tell the truth, my first two Caps were totally right. My nickname at my first station was Silent Stoker. I just didn't like to get into the gossiping and firehouse politics, you know? Or talk about my personal life," he said boldly. "So I just kept my mouth shut and people let me be. So maybe it's like I have a sign hanging over me that says, 'Look! It's Silent Stoker! He's talking, so it must be important!' I don't know."

"Well, whatever that is, juries like it. So after your thing that you and Harris have now, I want you to get with Bob Fredericks and sit in on the next trial he does."

"Sure—that'll be great."

"Good," Rhodes said. "Anyhow—I got a lotta shit to sift through today. See ya later."

Mike took his coffee back to his office. He thought about the conversation he'd just had with Rhodes, and realized it was the first time they'd talked individually for more than a minute or two since right after Mike was hired. Mike realized he had even referred to his personal life, just like a regular person, and Rhodes hadn't immediately gotten blustery and agitated. He'd just had a completely normal conversation with his boss, about completely normal things.

Mike started looking through the file for his and Wes's new project. They'd need to get out to the site today, and he hoped Wes wouldn't be spooked by his last experience at a fire site. As Mike read through the incident commander's initial report, the phone rang.

"Arson and Fire Investigation, Mike Stoker speaking."

"_Mr. Stoker? This is Detective DeVito._"

Mike felt a chill settle over him. So much for a normal day, with normal things. "Good morning, Detective."

"_Morning. I have some news for you and Mr. Gage—last night, James Torrelli decided to change his __plea to no contest._"

Mike sat there, open mouthed.

"_Mr. Stoker?_"

Mike snapped himself out of his astonishment. "Uh, yeah—I'm here! I was just really surprised by what you said. That's great, detective—really, really great. I mean, I know they'll get off lighter than if they were convicted in a trial, but honestly, the best thing for us at this point is not to have to deal with a trial."

"_I understand_," said DeVito. "_A lot of people feel that way, especially when the crimes committed against them were of a particularly personal or hateful nature_."

"You made my day, Detective—honest."

DeVito laughed. "_Well, I don't get to do that very often in this job_."

"Oh, believe me, I can relate," Mike replied.

"_I tried to reach Mr. Gage at your home earlier, but there was no answer._"

"I'll call him," Mike said. "He's back at work, so he might be hard to reach."

"_All right. And I don't know if you're interested, but let me give you the date and time of the sentencing hearing, in case you want to sit in on that._"

"Uh, we don't have to, do we?" Mike asked, thinking of Johnny's repeated pleas for everything to be over and done with.

"No—but some people get something out of it. Closure, I suppose."

DeVito gave Mike the date and times, and Mike wrote them on his calendar. He doubted Johnny would want to have anything to do with the event, but he wrote it down just in case.

"Thanks again, Detective. Really—we appreciate everything you've put into this case."

"_You're welcome_."

Mike set the phone receiver down in its cradle, and picked it right back up again. It was his turn to make someone's day.

~!~!~!~

Johnny hopped down from the officer's seat on the engine, tossing his coat on the seat and stepping out of his bunker pants and boots, leaving them by the door of the cab.

"Good job, guys—I know, just a little kitchen fire," Johnny said, "but we kept it from turning into a big house fire. Great work—fast and safe. Now I have the pleasure of doing the paperwork—so carry on."

Johnny headed into the office to do what was undeniably his least favorite part of his job—completing the paperwork for each and every run they went on. He quickly learned that if he didn't take care of each report immediately after the run, they piled up, and if it was a busy day, he'd sometimes get the details muddled. He didn't really consider himself a detail-oriented fellow—not like, say, Stoker—but he appreciated the need for clarity.

He also appreciated the need for praising his crew on a regular basis. He was fortunate to have a seasoned engineer, Peters, but his two other firefighters and both paramedics were fairly green. He didn't have any probies assigned to him—new captains didn't usually get probies in their first years—but he suspected that the next time someone from his crew left for any reason, he should expect a probie fresh from the academy. But Emerson had just finished his probationary period when he was assigned to 93's C-shift. He was getting more solid with his skills, but was only twenty—and an immature twenty, at that.

Johnny made his way through the fire report form, practicing his new skill of tuning out the horseplay from the apparatus bay as he worked. He practiced Captain Stanley's habit of leaving the office door open unless he was having a private conversation—partly to show he was available when needed, and partly to keep an ear on the pulse of the station. When he was halfway through the form, the phone rang, and was quickly answered on the kitchen extension.

Dan Fitzgerald, one of the firefighter/paramedics, appeared at the office door a few moments later.

"Cap? It's for you."

"Okay—thanks. Did they say who they were?"

"It's your, uh—it's Stoker."

Johnny ignored Fitzgerald's fumbling. "Thanks."

"You, uh, want me to close the door?"

"Sure—thanks."

The door clicked shut, but Johnny gave Fitzgerald a moment to step away from the door before he picked up the phone.

"Hey, hot stuff."

Mike laughed. "_Hey, babe. How's your first shift back?_"

"Oh, terrific," said Johnny. "_Almost_ enough action to keep my mind off _our_ action from this morning and last night. Almost, but not quite."

"_So I guess your version of dirty talk means that means your door is closed?_"

"Yup." Johnny put his feet up on the desk. "Why, what's goin' on?"

"_Good news—I just heard from DeVito that the other shithead is copping a plea._"

Johnny let out a whoop. "Wooo-hooo! Well awright! Damn, I don't even know what to say to that!"

"_Me neither—no trial, no more anything. We can show up at the sentencing hearing if we want, since it's a public affair, but we don't have to._"

"Damn," Johnny repeated. "You have no idea—well, I take it back, you know perfectly well. I feel like I was carrying Engine 93 on my back, and just put 'er down."

"_I know,_" Mike said. "_Yeah, babe. I know._"

Neither of them spoke, until a tremendous crashing sound from the apparatus bay interrupted the moment.

"_What the hell was that?_"

Johnny sighed. "Got some hooliganism goin' on I gotta take care of. Thanks for callin'—I really needed to hear that."

"_My pleasure. Hey—you mind if I call a couple of the guys? Like Cap, and maybe Chet?_"

"Hell—call everyone. Hey, you know what—we oughta have a party, ya know?"

"_We should_," said Mike. "_Maybe after the sentencing. Let's talk about it tomorrow, okay?_"

"Okay—yeah. Gotta go yell at the hooligans. I'll call ya after dinner, okay?"

"_Love you._"

"Me too. Bye."

Johnny opened his door, and stuck his head into the bay. "Hell is goin' on out here, guys?"

"Uh, nothin' Cap," said Emerson. "Just the, uh …" he tipped his head towards the disaster area on the floor that was the overturned rolling tool chest, contents strewn across the entire apparatus bay.

Johnny surveyed the scene far more calmly than he would have fifteen minutes earlier. He noted the basketball languishing guiltily in the corner of the bay, and observed that Fitzgerald seemed to have been heading towards that corner.

"Get a pushbroom, and sweep all the tools into a pile, so we don't run 'em over when we get toned out. And you'll sort 'em all out and put 'em all back before there's any free time today. Clear?"

"Clear, Cap. Sorry," Fitzgerald said sheepishly. "Guess we shouldn't throw the basketball around in the bay."

"You guess right," Johnny said in his best Captain Stanley voice. "Now get to it."

He returned to his office, choking on his suppressed laughs. As he finished the paperwork from the last run, he wondered how often Hank Stanley had done the exact same thing after sternly admonishing him or Chet or Marco about some foolish behavior or another.

~!~!~!~

At around the same time, Detective Tom DeVito was opening his day's mail at his desk. There was the usual variety of important and unimportant memos, and a letter from a lawyer. The mysterious item was a Sheriff's department letterhead envelope, with 'Detective DeVito' typed on the front, but no indication of who the sender was. DeVito opened the letter, which was typed on department letterhead, making it clear it was from a colleague.

_Dear Detective DeVito:_

_There are a couple of us in the department who would like to express our appreciation for your fine handling of the case of the two County firemen who were the targets of hatred from some assholes who didn't even know them. Given what the reason for their hatred was, we were almost expecting these crimes to be poorly investigated, intentionally mishandled, or lost in the shuffle. They weren't. _

_Thanks for not living down to our expectations._

_For obvious reasons, we are not signing this letter._

_Sincerely,_

_Three anonymous colleagues._

**TBC**


	44. Rules

A/N: I've been remiss in not thanking Bamboozlepig for helping with legal aspects in the story, an area in which I know next to nothing. I'm grateful for her help. Any errors regarding law enforcement procedures or the workings of the legal system are of course my own. Also: any real-life individuals appearing in this chapter are used fictionally. And as usual, I own nothing.

**Chapter 44: Rules**

Len Sterling sat waiting in the reception area of the Operations Chief's office. The Chief had called the meeting so that they could discuss some of the new equipment that Station 93 had tested in the field over the last six weeks. Len wasn't concerned about that part of the meeting at all. He knew exactly what he and the other two captains had agreed on in terms of recommendations for or against the new equipment, and he and Jeff Gilbert from B-shift had put together a list of pros and cons for each item. Johnny had been out for most of the testing period, but Len had made sure to get opinions from the men on Johnny's C-shift. He'd be sure to mention, during the discussion of the recommendations, that the C-shift captain had been out with an injury for three weeks and didn't get to give much input into the recommendations.

What Len was thinking about the most while he was waiting was his plan to also mention to Chief Edison the fact that an Operations employee had been knocked out of commission by an assault by a Special Services division employee who didn't even know the Ops employee but had a personal grudge against him.

"Len?" Chief Edison appeared in his office doorway. "C'mon in. Sorry I kept you waiting—had a tricky situation over in Battalion 14 that I had to deal with. Racial tension in a station, it seems. I mean, it's 1980, for fuck's sake. And you don't even want to know," Edison said, shaking his head, "what a pain in the ass it is when we have captains who never should've been promoted. Doesn't happen often, but—well. Come on in," Edison said, ushering Len through the door, "and have a seat."

They engaged in some small talk, and then Edison got down to business. "So, tell me how your station did with the new equipment."

"Well, I think the aluminum ladders are going to be a great change, and the fiberglass SCBA bottles were a unanimous success, but we weren't so wild about the new combination tools from Denver or the new style of negative-pressure vent fans. Here," Len said, handing Edison the neatly typed lists of pros and cons for each piece of equipment. "All three shifts got together and made you these lists."

Edison read the lists over carefully.

"Who's the C-shift captain?" he asked. "He seems to have hardly given any input into these lists at all. Why's that?"

"John Gage," said Len. "He's been out on medical leave for the last three weeks. His subs were only there for a couple of shifts each, so they weren't really able to form solid opinions about the new equipment."

"Gage, Gage," Edison said, frowning. "I can't quite recall—oh, of course. The paramedic. Young, if I remember right. To be honest, he was one of the ones I worried about promoting—partly because he seemed so young, but partly because he'd been a paramedic for so many years. Wondered if he'd really be able to swing right into captaining fire incidents. Do you have a sense for how he's doing? Of course, I get reports from his battalion chief, but frankly, they're less than useless. Livingston just plain needs to retire. So I'm curious what your opinion is."

"He's good," Len said confidently. "Very good. I had occasion to get to know him fairly well a while before he went for the promotion, and I recommended him for the promotion as well as for the slot at Station 93. Before Gage became a captain, he was a top-notch paramedic, but also the best technical rescue guy you could hope for, and a solid firefighter. And he never lost his touch with the firefighting business after becoming a paramedic. Plus, he's not nearly as young as he looks—he's thirty three, but looks twenty five, and that's only on a real tired day for him. It helps that his crew is pretty young, so he seems old to them. He's got some hooligans to deal with, but he keeps them in line. I also saw him put one of his boys back together again a couple weeks ago when the young fellow was dealing with his first child fatality. So I have no concerns whatsoever. He's only been a captain for less than a year, but give him a couple more years and he'll be a master at the job. No two ways about it."

Edison nodded slowly. "Okay. Good to hear. Like I said, Livingston seems to dislike the fellow for some reason he won't say, but still gives him "good" ratings in his reviews. Which is the best rating he ever gives anyone." Edison held up the typed tables Len had given him. "And thanks for these—I'm not surprised about any of the things I saw here, except for the problems with the tension bar on the vent fan—I hadn't used the thing myself, so I didn't catch that. And the Denver tool—well, they're just trying to put too many functions into one tool, and it doesn't do any of them well."

"That's what we all thought, too," Len said.

They discussed the pros and cons in more detail for another quarter hour. When it seemed there were no more questions or comments, Len waited in his seat while Edison looked the charts over one more time.

Edison looked up. "Seems to me, Len, that there might be something else you wanted to talk about."

"What, you mean just because I'm not running for the door already?"

"Well, you hate meetings, and you loathe HQ, but you're still here. What gives?"

Len sighed. "So, if you didn't love the race problem over in Battalion 14, you're _really_ not gonna love this one, especially since it's cross-divisional."

"Oh, joy. Break it to me gently, Len."

"It seems," Len said carefully, "that a fellow from Special Services, and a fellow who recently got fired from Special Services, are in jail right this moment, having pleaded 'no contest' to beating the crap out of a fellow from Ops, badly enough to land him in the hospital. That's among other things they did, including vandalizing his home, slashing his tires, and also attacking a fellow from Prevention and slashing his tires as well. Oh, and trashing his office, upstairs on the sixth floor. Twice."

Edison frowned. "These guys have some kind of grudge match going on?"

Len shook his head. "Nope. In fact, the two guys who got dumped on had never even _met_ the two prize specimens who are languishing in the hoosegow right now. But the jailbirds still decided they hated this Ops fellow bad enough to drag him into an alley and kick the shit out of him. Busted his ribs, banged up his kidney, and busted his face up pretty bad, too. Probably would've done a lot worse, too, if an alert bystander hadn't yelled at them that he was callin' the cops. The Ops fellow was in the hospital for a couple days. And here's a nifty thing: seems the two goons got some of the personal contact information for this fellow through the HR department. Not through normal channels, mind you, because there's no way a mechanic from the motor pool would need personal information about a fellow in Ops."

Edison's frown deepened. "I don't think I'm quite following this, Len. This didn't happen when any of these guys were at work, or I'd've heard about it for sure."

"That's right. The Ops fellow was off duty when he was assaulted. Had no idea who it was that beat him up, either. He missed about ten shifts. Just came back the other day."

"And it wasn't just some random thing? The Special Services goons targeted this guy specifically?"

"Yep. They knew exactly who they wanted."

Edison drummed on his desk. "I gotta say, Len; I'm pretty peeved I haven't heard about this before now."

"Well, why would you? The perpetrators weren't in your division. And the victim in Ops—well, he didn't even know who assaulted him until after they caught the guy. Plus, I doubt he wanted to go crying to his boss about getting beat up in an alley."

"Yeah, but a guy from another division beating up a guy from my division, and costing him a couple days in the hospital, plus ten shifts? I don't like hearing that Special Services is beating up Ops," Edison said. "What the hell was this all about? And why _wouldn't_ the Ops guy go to his supervisor with this, once he found out it was someone from the department?"

"He knew his supervisor wouldn't exactly be sympathetic." Len was being intentionally vague, hoping that Edison would be prompted to ask the right question.

"Why would his supervisor not be sympathetic? The guy got put in the hospital, for crying out loud! And … you said the assailants had some kind of grudge against my guy. How could that be, if they didn't even know each other?" Edison frowned. "Is this some kind of race thing, like that bullshit over in Battalion 14? Because that has to end. Right now. I don't care what the Specials guy had against my Ops guy—putting one of my guys in the hospital for a one-sided personal grudge is way over the line."

"I agree," Len said, finally having heard precisely what he was waiting for: the declaration that the reason for the assault was unimportant compared to the fact that the crimes happened in the first place. "And the Ops guy and the Prevention guy who were the two victims are both good at their jobs—_really_ good at their jobs. But neither one of them feels like they can come forwards and say anything about this to their bosses. And it pains them both greatly that all this damage was done by someone from a department whose mission is to save lives and protect property."

"Okay, Len," Edison said, glowering. "I'm pissed off, just like you want me to be. Now, would you please tell me _why_ neither of the victims is saying anything to their bosses? Because that sounds like a no-brainer if you ask me. And I'd like to get to the bottom of this."

Len sat back in his chair, satisfied that he had Edison exactly where he wanted him.

"You're not gonna like it," he warned.

"What I don't _like_," Edison snarled, "is that one of _my_ guys got put in the hospital by a guy from Special Services, and this is the first I've heard of it! Now spill it, Len. I don't give a shit if I don't like it—I obviously have to get to the bottom of it, whatever it turns out to be."

Len chose his next words carefully. "The fellow from Ops, and the one from Prevention, have been lovers for several years. They live together, but they keep it quiet. It doesn't get in the way of their work. They aren't violating any regulations. The Special Services guys got wind of them, and decided to take matters into their own hands."

Edison stared at him. "You're serious," he said.

"Yup," Len said. "And that's why they don't dare say a damned thing."

"You're totally serious," Edison repeated.

"As a heart attack."

Edison narrowed his eyes at Len. "You said this … thing … doesn't get in the way of their work. How could you possibly know that?"

"Ah. You see, the Prevention division fellow was on my crew, a couple years back. And the Ops man—he's at 93s now."

"And you're not gonna tell me who they are. Jesus, Len—it's not like I'd sack the Ops guy, unless he wasn't doing his job, or if this … thing was getting in the way of the job. Which I would've heard about from Livingston at this point, 'cause I have to sign off on anyone getting the sack. And the Prevention guy—" Edison stopped mid-sentence and paused for a couple seconds, mouth open. "He was your engineer—the one who got hit by the car a couple years back. Almost didn't make it, couldn't come back to Ops, but went into Arson."

Led nodded. "Yup. Mike Stoker."

Edison shook his head. "I remember him—his accident was just a couple weeks after I started as Chief of Ops, and he was pretty close to being my first line-of-duty death, wasn't he."

Len nodded minutely. "Touch and go, there, for a while."

"I heard the rumors, you know," Edison continued. "That he had a boyfriend who was a paramedic from his old station, and who was at his side the whole time he was in the hospital."

"I don't generally pay much mind to rumors, but the one you heard turns out to be true," said Len.

Edison sat back in his chair, arms crossed, looking at Len. "Captain Gage. That's why he was out during the new equipment field testing, isn't it."

"Got it in one."

Edison leaned forwards, groaning, and put his head in his hands. "Jesus Christ, Len. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

"What would you do about it if the reason Gage got beat up was that he was Native American, which he is, by the way, and the Special Services guy didn't like _that_?"

"Have a chat with Mark Fields and tell him one of his guys needs to get canned and why. And maybe have a chat with my boss about this whole thing, too."

"Okay." Len sat back and looked at Edison. "So?"

"Shit," Edison swore. He stared at Len, and Len stared at him. Edison picked up the phone.

~!~!~!~

_Ten days later: 0630, Stoker/Gage residence._

Mike was finishing his breakfast as the phone rang. He knew it would be Johnny—it always was at 0630 when he was on a shift. Johnny was just finishing up a double shift—first a regular C-shift as captain, and then an overtime shift as a paramedic, filling in for Henry Yang, whose wife had just given birth to a healthy baby girl.

"Hello?"

"_Hey—it's me._"

"Hey, you. How was your night?"

"_Bizarrely quiet—only one run, and that turned out to be maybe appendicitis, maybe nothing. Which is __good, since I'm on again tomorrow. But hey—I called because the Ops chief wants to see me this morning at HQ—and I thought maybe we could have lunch after. Since I didn't see you yesterday, and I'll hardly see you today, and I won't see you tomorrow._"

"Yeah—let's do that. What time's your meeting? And what's it all about, anyhow?"

"_Ten thirty—and all I know is that he wants to look over my last performance review from Livingston. Which was not stellar, but he doesn't _do_ stellar, so I'm not worried. I mean, I know I missed a lotta shifts that quarter, from, you know, but I couldn't help it._"

"Yeah, I wouldn't worry about that. Why don't you just come up when you're done? Doesn't matter to me if it's an early lunch. I'm just in the office all day anyhow."

"_'Kay. I'll see ya later. Love you_."

"And since nobody's listening here on my end, I can say I love you too, and I'll add that when I get home tonight, I'm gonna strip you down and have my way with you the instant I walk in the door, and I don't want any arguments."

Johnny laughed. "_No arguments here, as long as turnabout's fair play. See you later, huh?_"

"Bye."

Mike hung up the phone, and put his brown-bag lunch in the refrigerator for tomorrow. He drove in to HQ, and got there just as Bert Saunders was unlocking the front doors for the day.

"Hey, Stoker!" Bert said. "How's it going?"

"Good—haven't seen you in a while. Everything all right?"

"Oh yeah—just took a little vacation. And you?"

"Everything's great. Johnny's been back to work for a couple weeks. That's been really good for him. Oh—I think you missed this part. The two goons who beat him up both went for plea bargains. The sentencing hearing is in a couple weeks."

"They gonna get put away?"

"The detective seems to think so. He thinks they'll probably let the vandalism charges go, and just sentence them for the assault. That's gonna land them both in the joint for at least a year."

"Good," said Bert. "Good. So you guys don't have to testify or anything?"

Mike shook his head. "Nope. We don't have to do a damned thing. We don't even have to show up at the hearing."

"Hm. Are you gonna go?"

"I'm not completely sure," Mike said slowly. "Johnny's not touching it with a ten foot pole. He's done with the whole thing."

"But what about you?" Bert pressed.

"I … don't think Johnny wants me to go. But honestly, I don't think I'll totally believe it's all over and done with unless I hear the judge sending those two to jail." Mike sighed. "I guess I do need to go. I just have to figure out how to tell Johnny that. And then I'll go, and I'll just tell him what they were sentenced to, and then he's never gonna think about it ever again, is my guess."

"I don't blame him," Bert said, after thinking it over. "I guess I might do the same."

"I'd try," Mike admitted, "but fail. Anyhow—good to see you. I better get to work."

"Let me know what happens, huh?"

"Sure thing."

Mike stopped by the mail room and picked up the papers in his mailbox. One slip caught his attention, as it was meant to. It was a message slip, from Rhodes, marked "Urgent."

Mike eyebrows climbed his forehead as he looked at the message at the bottom of the slip. "_Chief Ryan wants to see us at 1030. See me when you get in._"

"O … kaaay," Mike said to himself. He couldn't think of any good reason why the head of the entire Prevention division of the fire department would want to see him. He stopped by Rhodes' office, and was not surprised to see it was still empty. He left a note in the clip on the door, and headed over to his own office.

He called Station 93, to see if he could catch Johnny before he headed to HQ.

"_Station 93, Len Sterling speaking._"

"Oh, hey Len. It's Mike. Johnny around?"

"_No—he and Velasquez are out on a late run, and John said he had to hightail it down to HQ as soon as the shift was done. Can I leave him a message for you?_"

Mike sighed. "Yeah, I guess so. We were supposed to meet after his thing at HQ, but something came up. I guess just tell him if I'm not in my office when he's done with his meeting, he should probably give up on me."

"_All right. I'll let him know. Everything okay?_"

Mike considered that for a second. "I really don't know, Len. My boss said Chief Ryan wants to see him and me. That's probably not for something neutral."

"_No,_" Len said. "_Probably not. But John was saying your boss is moving you up, so maybe it's not bad, right?_"

"Maybe not. But—Len, you had your chat with the Ops chief last week, right?"

"_Sure did, Mike. And I was there in his office while he called the Special Services chief to tell him what his guy did_."

"And, uh, did Chief Edison figure out who you were talking about?"

"_All on his own. Turns out you were very nearly his first line-of-duty fatality, so you kept his attention. And he of course heard the rumors that came later_."

"Huh," said Mike. "Now that you mention it, I sort of think maybe I remember him coming to the hospital. I couldn't figure that out at all, at the time. But—the rumors? Of course he heard them. I guess he just forgot about them, once it was clear I wasn't gonna croak and be a black mark on his record. But now, I guess it's all caught up with us. I mean, Ryan wanting me, and Edison wanting Gage, on the same morning? Smells to me like the shit is gonna hit the fan, Len."

"_You're the eternal pessimist, Mike,_" Len said.

Mike noted to himself that Len wasn't exactly disagreeing with him. "Well, we'll let you know what happens, in any case. Either from my office, if I still have one, or from home, later."

"_You do that, Mike. I …_" Len cleared his throat. "_I hope I didn't stir up any trouble, with Edison. I mean, at the time, he seemed fairly sympathetic._"

"You said what needed to be said, Len. If there's trouble today, it would've happened anyhow," Mike said reasonably. "Listen, I've gotta get back to work. I'm supposed to go sit in on an arson trial next week, to get a feel for that, and I still have to go over the case file again. But Johnny or I will give you a call later today, all right?"

"_You do that. Good luck_."

"Thanks."

Mike hung up his phone, and got out the case file for the trial he was supposed to attend next week. He started re-reading it, but found he wasn't able to get through a single page without worrying about what was going to happen later. He didn't want to pester Rhodes, but he felt he had no choice at this point, so he went down to Rhodes' office and tapped on the door.

"Yep—c'mon in," Rhodes said.

"Hey, boss. I, uh, got your note about meeting with Chief Ryan. And I gotta ask—am I getting the sack?"

Rhodes looked at him like he was wearing nothing but a purple feather boa. "No, you're not getting the sack. Why would you think that?"

"Just 'cause of … you know. Makes you paranoid when the brass wants to see you."

"Oh. Nope. It's about your case study you sent to that journal, I think. They took it—and Ryan likes it."

Mike practically fainted with relief.

"Oh thank God. All right. I was just worried, because, well …" Mike remembered that Rhodes really didn't want to know who Johnny was, so he couldn't mention his concern that he and Johnny were asked to see the brass on the same morning. "I just was, is all."

Rhodes frowned. "So you didn't get anything from the journal in the mail?"

"Uh …" Mike realized sheepishly that he hadn't opened all his mail yet. "I don't know. I was too busy obsessing. I guess I should go do that."

"You should," Rhodes said dryly. "I'll come get you in an hour, and we can go shake hands with the big brass, all right? And try to chill out between now and then, all right? I don't care if you get nothin' done. Just … I dunno. Try to relax, all right? Cause you're a nervous wreck right now."

"I am," Mike agreed. "I really am. I'll go … not drink some coffee, and try to get some work done, now that I know I'm not getting canned."

"Fine. See you in an hour."

Mike went back to his office, opened his picture drawer, and rearranged the pictures, just to have an excuse to touch them all. Seeing the pictures calmed him, and he went on to finally open his stack of mail. Sure enough, there was a letter of acceptance from the NFPA journal he'd sent his case study to. He set the letter aside, to take home to show to Johnny, and then read through the case file on his desk for a while. After what seemed like only a few minutes, there was a tap at his open door, and Rhodes came in.

"You ready?" Rhodes said. "You sure look calmer."

Mike took one last look in his drawer, slid it closed, and stood up. "Yep. I'm fine. Let's go."

~!~!~!~

At the same time, Johnny was meeting with Chief Edison downstairs.

"Captain Gage—come on in and have a seat."

Johnny entered the same office that Len Sterling had been sitting in ten days ago, and took the same chair.

"You're probably wondering what this is all about," Edison said, getting straight to the point.

"That's a fair assumption," Johnny said.

"I got an interim performance review for you, from Chief Livingston. He was unhappy that you missed ten shifts due to a non-work-related injury."

Johnny sighed. "It's true. Dr. Brackett, down at Rampart, took me off work for three weeks after I cracked three ribs and bruised a kidney. So yeah, I missed a lot of shifts."

Edison sat back and looked at Johnny.

"Captain, I'm concerned about some discrepancies between what I'm hearing from Chief Livingston, and what I'm hearing from some other sources. I'd like to hear your take on a few points."

"Yes sir," Johnny said cautiously.

"First of all, I got a stellar report on your work at a house fire a few weeks ago, where your crew was part of a second-alarm assignment at a residential structure fire. You'll remember the one I mean—there was a child fatality."

"I remember," Johnny said. "It was real tough for my guys—except for my engineer, they're all real young. One guy is just out of his probie year, and hadn't had to deal with anything like that before. He took it real hard."

"I know he did," Edison said. "But Captain Treadwell, who was incident command on that fire, said in his report that your entire crew did a superb job in all respects. Safe, efficient, and effective. And that you personally ended up handling the parents—which nobody would want to do—and that you were outstanding in that role."

Johnny looked away. "It was tough," he said. "It was real tough. I had to physically restrain the dad from goin' back in, and the mom—well." Johnny cleared his throat.

"I know it was tough. But Treadwell said he'd never seen it done better."

"Thank you, Chief," Johnny said. "One of my guys—the real young guy—he pretty much lost it, though."

"But not until the work was done, Gage. He kept it together—you kept him together—until he could fall apart, and then you picked up the pieces when you got back to quarters. Len Sterling filled me in on that."

"Yeah. Emerson … well, I wasn't sure if he'd make it past that one. But I think he did."

"And I have another report, here, from a month or two back—I don't know if you'll recall this one, but it was a multi-car MVA, where one of the cars was full of teenagers. You were Incident Command on that one, but you turned it over to your engineer so you could work on one of the kids."

"I had to," Johnny said simply. "We had three critical patients, who couldn't wait. We called for additional units, but their ETA was over twenty minutes. And Peters could handle IC on something like that. He did fine."

"I know he did—and he turned IC over to the next Captain on the scene, Calhoun, from the next district over. Who I have _another_ report from. He said Peters and your two other firefighters had done everything textbook style, and the scene was already stable by the time Calhoun's engine company finally got there. All his crew did was help with the mop-up. And then, the head of the ER at Henry Mayo sent me a note that if there hadn't been three paramedics at the scene initially, like there were, somebody probably wouldn't have made it. Which confirms what you said—that turning IC over to Peters was the right decision." Edison looked up from his papers, and made eye contact with Johnny. "And all of these reports—the ones that I'm getting from people _other_ than your direct supervisor—are painting quite a different picture from the 'adequate' reports I get from Livingston."

Johnny squirmed, and looked away. "He, uh, doesn't exactly like me."

"He isn't _required_ to like you," Edison said sternly.

"Uh, nossir," Johnny said, cringing.

"But he _is_ required to report accurately and fairly on your work. And that's clearly not happening." Edison narrowed his eyes at Johnny. "What's your sense for how much his bias against your personal life is affecting his judgments of your work?"

Johnny froze in his chair. "Sir?"

"You live with and are involved with another fireman, correct?"

Johnny shrank into his seat, with a sinking feeling that maybe the rosy picture that Edison had just painted of Captain Gage's finest work maybe wouldn't matter after all. "Uh, yessir, but that doesn't ever get in the way of—"

"I know, I know," Edison interrupted. "It doesn't get in the way of your work. Relax. I can see it doesn't. But it _does_ seem to get in the way of Livingston's judgment, unless you disagree. Do you?"

Johnny sighed. "No, sir, I don't," he said, after a moment. "But I'm not asking for any special treatment, all right?"

"I know you're not. But you seem to be getting it anyhow—and not in a nice way. From Livingston, and from Staib." Edison watched Johnny's face fall even further. "Yes, I know about that. I know _why_ you missed ten shifts, which was a glaring omission at the beginning of our conversation. I also know you didn't complain to the department about it, even though you could've. And I also know you only got half pay after the first three shifts, since it wasn't a line-of-duty injury."

"Yessir. It wasn't line of duty," Johnny said. "I was off duty, and I considered it a personal matter."

"But you see, Gage, I talked to the detective who worked the case, and it's his opinion that these guys got a hold of your address and phone number from HR somehow. Do you agree with that assessment?"

Johnny nodded, reluctantly. "The phone number, for sure. The address—well, that's a little less clear. But yeah, definitely my unlisted phone number."

"Fair enough. So here's what the department is going to do. We can't give you full pay for those seven shifts, because that could set a precedent we don't want to deal with. But, since it does appear that someone in HR either fouled up or deliberately gave out your personal information, which probably contributed to the pattern of behavior you got from Staib, we're going to split the difference. Your next paycheck will reflect an additional quarter of your pay for each of the seven shifts you got half pay for. And I'd appreciate it if you kept this to yourself."

Johnny gaped at him, and finally closed his mouth and nodded. "Yessir. Thank you, sir." Johnny calculated quickly in his head—the extra pay Edison was referring to would come out to nearly two entire shifts' worth of salary, which would make up for a good deal of the financial hardship of the incidents.

"Not at all." It was Edison's turn to sigh. "Look. I don't understand your … personal life. But it's just that: personal. Livingston has shown that he can't separate his personal opinion of you from his professional one. This appears to be a pattern in his work. So to put things concisely, as of a few weeks from now, you will find you have a new battalion chief. Don't get me wrong: Livingston is not being fired. He's simply being … moved, someplace where he'll do more good and less damage."

"Uh, yessir. I assume that's something else to keep to myself."

Edison laughed. "You didn't hear it from me, that's for sure. But nobody's going to be surprised by this move. Not Livingston, and not anyone under him either."

"Nossir." Johnny squirmed in his chair again.

"Don't worry, I'm almost done with you. Just one last thing, before I send you off to Chief Bragdon."

Johnny turned a shade paler than he'd been.

"Relax, son—he doesn't bite. And as I said: one last thing. Keep up the good work, Captain. You're going to go a long way." Edison stood up, and extended a hand.

Johnny regained his color, and managed to get out of his chair without knocking it over, and shook Edison's hand across the desk. "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. Dismissed. And please report to Chief Bragdon's office."

"Yessir." Johnny saluted smartly, and exited the room.

He stood in the anteroom just collecting his thoughts. Edison's secretary watched him with amusement. "Captain Gage?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. That's me." Johnny winced.

"Chief Edison asked me to remind you to head to Chief Bragdon's office, at the end of the hall, if you looked lost. Which you do, if you don't mind my saying."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. I guess I do. I mean, I do look lost, that is. I don't mind you saying. Thanks." He gave his head a quick shake, like a dog with a fly on its ear, and left the office.

He went to the end of the hall, as instructed, and opened the glass door to the Fire Chief's office suite. Without looking at any of the other people in the waiting area, he reported to the secretary. "Captain John Gage. I was sent down here by Chief Edison."

The secretary nodded. "The Chief will be with you shortly. Please have a seat."

"Thanks." Johnny turned, and nearly fell over backwards as he realized he'd just walked right past Mike.

"Howdy, stranger," Mike said seriously.

"What're you doin' here?" Johnny asked quietly. "You think we're in trouble?"

"Nah," said Mike. "I just had a veritable love-fest with Chief Ryan. Remember that case study I submitted to the NFPA arson journal?"

Johnny nodded.

"Well, they accepted it. And Chief Ryan loved it. Gave me a little talk about how he wasn't so sure about me when the division took me on, especially after all the rumors, but that he basically doesn't give a shit about my personal life, as long as I do a good job. Doesn't want to hear about it, but also doesn't give a shit about it." Mike paused. "Not in so many words, but that was the gist of it."

Johnny frowned. "Sounds exactly like the chat I just had with Chief Edison."

"Yeah, well I'm starting to think maybe someone else put them both up to those little talks," Mike said, tipping his head towards the closed office door.

"And that maybe our next chat ain't gonna be so comfy," Johnny said glumly.

"Kinda what I'm thinking, too. Even though apparently we're not getting canned." Mike wiped his hands down the legs of his pants.

Johnny jiggled his foot wildly for a minute or so, then, no longer able to help himself, paced the room a few times.

Mike sighed and patted the seat next to him. "C'mon, Gage; give it a rest. I don't think it's gonna be a comfy chat either, but I also think we don't need to call your friends in San Francisco yet, either. Or our last chats probably wouldn't have happened, right?"

"My own personal voice of reason," Johnny said, sitting down again. "I guess you're probably right, though."

Mike bumped his shoulder against Johnny's. "I know I'm right. We're not getting canned, all right?"

"I guess, since this is coming from the guy with the glass that's always half empty, I should believe it."

"Aw, c'mon now. My glass hasn't been half empty for a long, long time. About two and a half years, if I'm counting right."

Johnny grinned back at him fondly. "I think you are, Stoker. I think you are."

They both looked up as a buzzer sounded on the secretary's desk.

"Captain Gage, Mr. Stoker?" she said.

Johnny and Mike stood up.

"You can go in now."

"Thanks, ma'am," Mike said. He led the way, opening the door for Johnny. Chief Bragdon, standing next to his desk, gestured them in.

"Captain Gage?" the Chief asked, looking at the one man in uniform.

"Yessir," said Johnny, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."

"Likewise." The Chief extended a hand to Mike. "And Mr. Stoker. Please, have a seat."

The Chief settled into the large executive chair behind his desk. "I suppose you're wondering why I wanted to see the two of you this morning," he began.

"Well, to be honest, sir, a couple of things did cross our minds," Johnny said.

Mike kicked him surreptitiously.

"But, uh, yessir. We did wonder," Johnny concluded.

"I like to get straight to the point," Chief Bragdon said. "Three things. First of all, in case you didn't figure this out from your last meetings with your respective division chiefs, you're not getting fired."

"Thank you, sir," Mike said.

"Second thing: the Department feels that it bears some responsibility not only for the fact that William Staib got hold of your personal information, but also for the fact that he was one of our employees for as long as he was. Looking through his records, there's been a pattern of erratic behavior and unpleasant incidents of many kinds that should have resulted in termination a long time ago. So he's history, as of this morning."

Mike and Johnny nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Last thing." Bragdon leaned back into his chair and considered the two men sitting in front of him. "The last thing is, what to do about the two of you."

Mike sat as still as a rock, but Johnny sank slightly into his chair.

"Sit up!" Bragdon said sharply. "No Captain in this department should be cringing in front of anyone, clear?"

Johnny sat up straight. "Yessir, sorry sir."

Bragdon sighed. "Look. I'm not gonna pretend to be open minded, or liberal, because I'm neither. But I'm also a reasonable person, and I have three reasonable Deputy Chiefs working under me who agree with what I'm about to say to you. Which is this."

Johnny and Mike held their breaths as Bragdon continued.

"You know all about the agency that you work for. Every firefighter in every station of this department is male. Most of us are fairly politically and socially conservative. But: your personal lives are your business. Your bosses, and your bosses' bosses, aren't going to press you about your personal lives. But you? You aren't going to flaunt them, either. Which I know you don't. It was an unfortunate set of circumstances that led to the open secret in this department that you two are involved the way you are."

Bragdon continued. "So what it boils down to is this. We do not, and _cannot_, as a department, have a policy about what people can and can't do in their personal lives, so long as it isn't illegal, and doesn't undermine this department's mission to save lives and protect property. William Staib's actions are a case in point, here. We also cannot have any formal policies about what our employees may and may not discuss during working hours. We can and do have policies preventing discrimination against legally protected classes. Which I feel obligated to point out that you are _not_ members of. So here's the unwritten rule, gentlemen: _your_ job is to keep your personal lives personal, which you've been doing. _My_ job is to make sure that your supervisors allow you to do so, by not delving into your personal lives, and not allowing others to do so, either. My job is also to ensure that people who do their jobs well are allowed to continue to do so, regardless of anyone's personal opinions about things that are none of their concern." He surveyed the pair in front of him. "Any questions?"

Johnny remained silent, simply shaking his head, but Mike spoke up boldly. "A comment, actually, if I may."

Bragdon nodded.

Mike held up his hand and pointed to the gold band on his left ring finger. "I'm not taking this off." His voice held no challenging tone; just a matter-of-fact statement of truth.

"Nobody's asking you to," Bragdon said neutrally.

"So what am I allowed to say, without getting fired, if someone asks me about my spouse?" Mike continued, out-neutraling Bragdon with his tone and facial expression.

"That's up to you. But it stays short, and it stays neutral."

"I'm an expert at neutral," Mike informed him, "but not so good at short, these days. So you're just going to have to trust that I'll keep things professional."

"That's all the department is asking." Bragdon turned to Johnny. "Captain Gage?"

"I mind my own business, and expect people to mind theirs," Johnny said. "Always have, always will. I don't see how this is any different. And I don't like ugliness. I learned, a long time ago, to just walk away from it. Usually, it doesn't follow. Sometimes, it does. And if or when ugliness follows me, I'll defend myself."

"That's fair," said Bragdon. "And as I said, part of the department's job is to try to see that it doesn't. But, we won't always succeed."

"Believe me," Johnny said, "I know."

"I have no doubt that you do, Captain Gage. On many levels." Bragdon looked back and forth between the two men. "Are we clear on all this, gentlemen?"

Johnny nodded. Mike hesitated, and Bragdon noticed.

"I would like to request permission to speak freely and without recrimination," Mike said.

"Granted, within the scope of this meeting," Bragdon said, leaning backwards, arms folded across his chest.

"If my personal life is my own personal business, then I should have the right to discuss it with whomever I choose. Including my co-workers."

Bragdon considered Mike's remark. "The First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution doesn't grant you the right to shout 'Fire!' in a crowded movie theater. What we're talking about here is several times less inflammatory, but of a somewhat similar nature."

"I'm not planning on baiting anyone. I just think it's reasonable for me to be permitted to supply polite answers to polite questions, and not risk getting fired for telling the truth," Mike said.

"I understand. And what _you_ have to understand, is that any complaints about your behavior regarding your personal life can land you in some mighty hot water."

"I don't plan to land there. I can tell when there's a flame under any pot of water I'm considering jumping into, to extend your metaphor," Mike said calmly. "But I've spent half my life being 'Silent Stoker' so that people wouldn't discover I'm gay, and I'm not going to crawl back into that hole. But like I said before, neutral is my specialty. I'm not going to open the door you're afraid of, but if someone else opens it, I'll comment neutrally and truthfully, and politely close the door again. If they choose to knock at the door again, I'm not going to slam it in their face, unless they're standing outside with torches and pitchforks."

"That's fair," Bragdon said. "The point of all this is to keep things professional and civilized in this department."

"I see where you're going with 'professional,'" Mike said, "and I can agree with that. But 'civilized?' Sorry, but I have to disagree. It's not very civilized to have special unwritten rules for people who have characteristics you just don't like."

"And there, Mr. Stoker, is where we're going to have to agree to disagree," Bragdon said.

"So it seems," Mike said. "But I can and will follow your rules—up to the point where I have to lie by action or omission. Up to the point where I have to violate my own personal ethical standards so that I can fit neatly into the department's fireman-shaped box."

Bragdon nodded. "I see your point. That it's not so easy to say, 'just don't talk about it.'"

"Precisely," Mike said. "And that being said—both Johnny and I are quiet about our private lives. We take our privacy seriously, and neither of us is going to change in that respect."

Johnny nodded. "Ask anyone we work with, except people who are close friends outside of work. We keep ourselves to ourselves."

"Fine. That's all I ask. And in return, you can expect the department to stay out of your personal lives. And now, I think we're all clear. Correct?"

"Crystal clear," Mike said.

"Yeah, I got it," Johnny said. "Pretty much what we were doing anyhow."

"As I imagined you were," Bragdon said. "But in light of recent events, I felt it necessary to at least speak the unwritten rules, and make sure we're all adhering to the same ones. And now, gentlemen, I need to end this meeting, as I believe the Mayor of Pomona is waiting for me. But one last thing: I hear from both your division chiefs that you're doing great work. Gage, you're turning into a fine Captain. Stoker, you got us published in the NFPA arson journal, and you made us all look damned good. Both of you—keep up the good work."

"Uh, yessir," Johnny said, shaking Bragdon's proffered hand.

Mike nodded. "We will," he said, also shaking Bragdon's hand.

"I'm sure you will," Bragdon said, walking them to the door of his spacious office. "Glad to meet you both."

Johnny and Mike left the office, and fled to the corridor.

"Not what I was expecting," Johnny said, finally. "How 'bout you?"

"Actually, that was pretty much exactly what I was expecting," Mike said. "C'mon. Let's get out of this building—I feel like I'm suffocating."

"Yeah. Me too, I guess," Johnny said. "But we're not getting canned. Thirty years ago, we woulda for sure."

"Progress," Mike said wryly. "But who knows. Maybe things will be different in thirty more years."

"Prob'ly," said Johnny. "But I can't wait that long for lunch, so let's go."

**TBC**


	45. Sentences

**Chapter 45: Sentences**

_A Thursday evening, six weeks later_.

Mike and Johnny were finishing cleaning the kitchen after dinner. Johnny used part of his day off to try a new recipe, and the result had been a delicious meal, but a disastrous kitchen. Johnny was putting away dishes, as Mike finished drying the last of them.

"Okay, Stoker—spill it," Johnny said, as he put a pot into a cupboard by his feet.

"Huh?"

"You've hardly said a word the entire time we've been in the kitchen. So, uh, what'd I do?"

"Oh." Mike dried the last dish, handed it to Johnny, and hung up his towel. He watched as Johnny put the casserole dish into the cupboard. "Nothing."

Johnny turned back to Mike. "All right—that narrows it down. I didn't do anything. So what's goin' on?"

Mike sighed. "You're not gonna like it."

"I guarantee I'll like it a lot less if you keep whatever it is bouncin' around inside your head so you toss an' turn all night." Johnny pointed to the living room. "C'mon. Let's siddown, and then you don't look at me so you can say whatever it is you gotta say that I'm not gonna like."

Mike sat down on the sofa, and Johnny plunked himself down right next to him. Mike stared out the window, looking out towards Mrs. Daniels' house. He took Johnny's hand, and kept looking out the window as he finally spoke.

"Tomorrow's the sentencing hearing," he said.

"Yeah—I know. That's why our party's on Saturday, right? Because that whole thing will be laid to rest, once and for all, and we can get on with our lives."

"Yeah," said Mike.

"So, what am I not gonna like?" Johnny prodded.

"I'm going to the hearing," Mike said. He instantly felt Johnny tense up next to him.

Johnny didn't say anything for a few seconds.

"I thought we'd decided just to stay out of it," he said, finally.

"I know we did. And I'm sorry to be changing my mind all of a sudden."

"Okay—but _why_? Why do you wanna go to this thing all of a sudden?"

"I guess it seems all of a sudden to you, but I've been thinking about it a lot. I guess," Mike said heavily, "that with all the time I've been spending in courtrooms lately, sitting in on Bob Fredericks' expert witness testimony … I guess I'm feeling like it's not gonna seem like it's _real_, not really _over_, unless I actually see it happen. Unless I'm there when the judge reads out the sentences. I know, I know—somebody from the D.A.'s office is supposed to call us after. But I just feel like I need to _see_ it. I promise—I'm not gonna make a show of it. I'll sit in the back, and I doubt they'll even know I'm there. Hell, I doubt that Torrelli guy would even recognize me. Okay?" He shifted sideways on the couch, to look at Johnny, without letting go of his hand.

Johnny sighed, and squeezed Mike's hand. "Okay. I guess I get that. I guess it's like me wanting to read everything they put in your chart when you were in the hospital. I could see you gettin' better with my own eyes, but somehow seeing the official documentation made it seem like it wasn't all a trick."

Mike let out a long breath. "Okay. Thanks. I'm glad you understand. Sorry about the silent treatment just now."

"'s all right. Now c'mere."

"Huh?"

"I gotta wipe that sad, guilty expression off your face."

~!~!~!~

_0950, the next morning._

Mike sat in the back row of the courtroom, as he'd promised Johnny. He'd sat quietly through the hearing preceding the one he was there for—a preliminary hearing for a suspect in a burglary case. As he waited patiently for the ten o'clock hearing he was there for, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A door in the back corner of the courtroom entered, and a tall figure in an L.A. County Fire Department uniform entered quietly.

Hank Stanley made his way to where Mike was sitting.

"Cap!" Mike whispered. "What are you doing here?"

"I should ask the same of you—I thought you guys had decided to sit this thing out."

Mike and Captain Stanley watched silently as the defendant from the previous hearing was escorted out of the courtroom.

"There will be a ten minute recess before the next hearing," the judge said, "as there seems to be a bit of a … disturbance in the corridor."

"I had to come," Mike replied to Cap. "I was just feeling like, well, it won't really sink in unless I see it, you know?"

Cap nodded. "I suppose I can see that." He paused, and looked around. "Well, Mike, I know you don't like surprises, so—sorry about this."

Before Mike could ask what Cap was apologizing for, his eyes were drawn to the same door Cap had come through moments ago. Four more uniformed men entered, and filed towards Mike and Cap. Marco, Chet, and Roy, followed by Ed Jackson, took seats in the row in front of Mike. They were joined in short order by Drs. Brackett and Early, and Dixie McCall.

The door opened again, and most of the A-shift from Station 93 entered, followed closely by Melinda Yang, who was carrying their new baby. Len Sterling was oddly absent from the group, but Mike didn't have time to wonder why. The B-shift crew followed. Captain Craig Brice entered, accompanied by several other firemen and paramedics who were acquaintances of Mike's and Johnny's from their days at Station 51.

Mike watched as more and more familiar faces filed into the room. A few civilians dotted the rows, as did several law enforcement officers. Three unfamiliar sheriff's deputies sat together at the end of one row—Mike wondered who they were. Marco's young cousin, Deputy Ben Houlihan, squeezed past Chet and Roy to grab a seat next to Marco. Roy, at the end of their row, shifted everyone over to make room for Bert Saunders.

Finally, after several minutes of admitting men in navy pants and light blue shirts, the courtroom doors remained closed, having let in what looked to Mike like every fireman he knew who wasn't on C-shift. There couldn't possibly be anyone left, Mike thought.

But he was wrong, in several ways.

The door opened one more time, and Deputy Chief Ryan, head of the fire department's Prevention division, came in, along with a man who Mike was pretty sure was Deputy Chief Edison of the Operations division. They sat near the front of the courtroom. The judge nodded to Ryan, and Ryan nodded back politely.

The door swung open one last time. Mike nearly toppled off his seat as Johnny ducked into the room and froze instantly, his deer-in-the-headlight eyes scanning the back row. Johnny's dark eyes locked on to Mike's, and didn't let go. Hank Stanley stood up and scooted past Mike to make room for Johnny on the end of the row. Johnny wedged himself into the narrow space left for him. Mike was about to speak, or possibly about to burst into tears—he wasn't quite sure which—but did neither, as the judge's gavel tapped gently. Mike's eyes met Johnny's again, and Johnny's hand surreptitiously caught Mike's for a quick squeeze.

Mike and Johnny sat silently, their eyes passing over the sea of blue in front of them. They listened as the judge called the courtroom to order, and the rustling of uniforms ceased. They watched as uniformed law officers escorted Staib and a shorter, darker man to their places. They paid careful attention as the judge read the charges, and he and the various attorneys present laid out the bargain that they had already agreed upon behind closed doors.

Mike was unsurprised to hear that the deal included dropping all charges except for the felony assault and battery charges, to which the defendants had agreed to plead guilty. He felt a chill pass through him as the judge discussed how the severity of the injuries in the assault required the D.A. to insist upon the felony charges. Mike was reminded, then, that the two assailants had planned for far worse damage than they'd actually been able to inflict, thanks to the timely intervention of 'Robert from the beer store.' Mike was surprised to find Johnny's hand seeking his again. This time, they didn't let go. Nobody was looking at them, anyhow—everyone's attention was on the judge and the two pathetic-looking men in orange jumpsuits.

Mike was oddly pleased by the fact that neither defendant chose to take the option of speaking on his own behalf, and wondered if the ocean of uniforms in the courtroom had anything to do with that.

The only time Mike had ever seen Staib, he'd appeared brash and self-confident, as if he were somehow invincible. But today, he looked not at all like a superhero, in his garish prison-issue jumpsuit. In the HQ parking lot, after the police had arrived to start sorting out the near assault, Mike thought Staib's eyes bored into him so sharply they actually hurt. But today, there was no manic glint in those eyes—no look of superiority, no arrogant gleam. He was just a wan, thin-looking man, with slightly greasy blond hair and a downcast expression. Torrelli, seated nearby, looked sullen and defeated. The neon orange of his jumpsuit brought out a greenish tone to his skin—or perhaps that coloration was caused by something internal.

Mike didn't feel sorry for them in the slightest.

He sat on the edge of his uncomfortable wooden seat as the judge read out the sentences: twelve months for Torrelli, and eighteen months for Staib, followed by three years' probation for each upon release from prison.

The occupants of the courtroom remained silent and calm as the defendants—no, Mike corrected himself, the _convicts_—were led out of the courtroom.

"There will be a ten minute recess before the next hearing," the judge announced, ending the proceedings on an anticlimactic note.

"I gotta get outta here," Johnny whispered to Mike.

"Okay," Mike said quietly. He turned to Cap. "Cap—I …"

Cap looked at him, and at the expression on Johnny's face. "Go," he said quietly. "Nobody thought you were coming—nobody'll be offended if you have to get out."

"Thanks," Mike said. He packed more meaning and feeling into that one word than he thought was possible, and saw from Hank's eyes that he understood.

Mike and Johnny slipped out the back door, almost before anyone noticed they'd been there.

"Where to, babe?" Mike asked.

"Out," Johnny said. "Anywhere. Rover's in the parking lot."

They didn't speak as they walked to the far corner of the parking lot. They got into the vehicle, and Johnny pulled out of the parking lot, only to park again in the deserted back row of a supermarket one block up the street from the courthouse.

Johnny turned the engine off, and rested his head on the steering wheel. Mike put his hand on the back of Johnny's neck, which was as taut as a suspension-bridge cable.

"I thought about it the whole way in to the station this morning," Johnny said, finally. "I couldn't let you sit there all by yourself. I didn't want to go—God, I didn't want to go. But I got to the office, and Len was there, ready to walk out the door—and now I know where he was headed—and I begged him to fill in for me, just for a few hours, so I could be a man and not make you sit there by yourself. He said yes, and I made it, just in time. And when I walked into that courtroom, and saw that sea of blue—I swear, Mikey, if I hadn't found you, right there in the back row where you said you'd be, I woulda panicked and run right back out again. But you were there. And we made it."

"We made it," Mike echoed softly. "And we won."

Johnny picked his head up off the steering wheel, and swiped his wrist across slightly damp eyes. "Those guys didn't look so big today, did they."

"Nope. They looked just like the small men they really are."

Johnny inhaled, and exhaled shakily. "Did you know?" he asked. "Did you know everyone was gonna be there?"

"No," Mike said. "I had no clue. I thought it was just going to be me, and whoever was waiting for the next case. I had no idea at all."

"I guess it's like Len said, back at the beginning, that day when they got your office and my tires. I guess we really do have a whole lot of friends in the department. Somehow, seeing everyone we know in the department, all together like that—I dunno. I guess it made me feel like everything's gonna turn out all right."

"Yeah," Mike said. "Yeah, I think it is."

**TBC (one last happy chapter still to come.)**


	46. Party

**Chapter 46: Party**

"The thing about these 365-day-a-year jobs," Johnny complained, fishing a t-shirt from the laundry basket, "is that you can never get everyone together at the same time. A third of us will always be on the job at any given time."

"That's pretty much a given," said Mike, as he rolled another pair of socks together and frowned at them. "Are these yours or mine?"

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not, if we can't tell."

Johnny folded another t-shirt and put it on Mike's pile. "I feel bad that Roy's taking time off to come to our thing tonight. But I guess it made sense to schedule it during B-shift, since everyone else we know is on A or C."

"Look. Roy understands. It's not like we asked him to take time off to help us paint, or do lawn work, or something like that, right? And he'll have a fun time at a party with his family and friends."

Johnny snorted lightly. "Listen to us. _You're_ tryin' to get _me_ to not worry about something."

Mike smiled. "Just think—not even three years ago, you'd never been here, to this house. I was a chronic worrier, and solidly locked up in my closet, and you were a chronic … hmm, what?"

"I was chronically lonely, babe, is what. But not anymore."

"No," Mike said. He rolled one last pair of socks together and added them to the pile. He came up behind Johnny, and rested his chin on Johnny's shoulder, wrapping his arms around his midsection.

"And then Cap took one bad step at a brush fire," Johnny said, leaning back in to Mike, "and you popped your shoulder out, and I got you high on morphine, and you looked at me that way I love, Mikey, and good ol' Roy tried to keep us apart."

"Didn't work for too long, though. Fortunately."

"Nope. Once I saw that look, I was hooked."

"It's funny," Mike said, "to think about how if one little thing had been different, any step of the way, we might not be …"

Johnny turned in Mike's arms. "Now, I don't believe _that_ for a second." He pecked a quick kiss onto Mike's lips, shoved a pile of laundry out of the way, and sat on the bed, patting the spot next to him.

Mike sat down. "Why not?"

"Well, first of all, let me just say I don't believe in 'destiny,' or anything like that."

"I know that—none of that … what do you call it?"

"Mystical crap."

"Right. But go on," Mike said. "I'm curious, now."

"The way I figure it, you and I always liked each other, always saw eye-to-eye on things, even though we weren't great buddies like me and Roy, or Marco and Chet. But there was this _one_ thing, this _one_ secret, that we both had, that neither one of us knew about. There are a hundred—no, a thousand—ways that the secret coulda been spilled. And once we knew that about each other, we both woulda been too curious and too interested to just let it go."

Mike digested what Johnny said. "So if Cap hadn't taken me down with his famous tumble, and I hadn't been off my rocker and giving you The Look, and I hadn't been sleeping outside in a rainstorm you predicted, you think something else would've happened that might've gotten the wheels turning?"

"Yep. No point in trying to figure out what it mighta been, or when, but yeah. I think something else woulda happened eventually. Not because of anything mystical; just because it seems likely. And because we had such similar secrets, we each mighta noticed something the other guys never woulda."

"Okay, Gage. I'll buy that."

"That's good, because I've got plenty of other things to sell you, if you're in the mood."

Mike smiled back at Johnny. "You _know_ we have a lot to get done before our shindig tonight."

"Yeah, and I also _know_ you're always in the mood, too."

"Johnny, weren't you just saying not all that long ago that maybe you've finally grown up?"

"Nah, I won't ever completely grow up. I _will_ move the folded laundry off the bed before I jump ya, though."

Mike rolled his eyes and stood up, clutching a pile of folded t-shirts. "It's gonna have to keep, babe. Seriously—it's four o'clock, and people are coming at six, and we still have a lot to get done. Which _doesn't_ include each other."

"I know, I know—I'm just teasin'. Sort of."

"I'll tell you what. I'll see you here, in this room, the very second the last guest is out the door. Or passed out on the couch, or in the guest room. Deal?"

"Deal. Seal it with a kiss, Stoker?"

Mike smiled as he put the t-shirts in a drawer. "You bet."

They sealed their bargain, long enough that each one knew the other meant it, but short enough that it didn't threaten to turn into something else.

"There. Now I'll be an adult again. Who's gonna pick up the food, and who's gonna get stuff ready around here?" Johnny said, as he picked up a pile of socks and dumped them in a drawer.

"Either way." Mike was curious to see whether Johnny would try to get out of going to the store he'd been headed to when William Staib and James Torrelli assaulted him. Curious, in the way one is when the plumbing snake emerges from a clogged drain, wanting to know but also _not_ wanting to know what might be about to appear. He looked at Johnny, waiting for him to make the choice, but also not wanting to assume that Johnny did actually have any baggage.

Johnny crossed his arms and squinted at Mike. "You know what I think I'll do? I think I'll go pick up those sandwich trays from our favorite corner store. And I'll walk through the alley to do it, too."

Mike took a step backwards. Had Johnny somehow read his mind? "I, uh …"

"No, I know you're not assuming anything. But maybe I _am_. So that's what I'll do. Yep, walk through that alley and pick up our deli trays, and walk right back through again. No problem."

"Okay. If that's what you want to do."

"It'll be fine. I'll be fine."

"I know it will. Hey." Mike pulled Johnny to him, and kissed him again, with a different flavor this time. "I know you are."

~!~!~!~

Johnny parked the Rover in the parking lot of the pizza place he and Mike used to go to. He took the same spot as he had that day, right in front of the pizzeria. He got out of the vehicle, and slammed the door shut. He stopped short at the sidewalk under the awning—there was a sign in the window.

"CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. WILL REOPEN SOON UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. NEW! FREE DELIVERY!"

Johnny rubbed his hands together in glee. "Excellent! Goodbye, pizzaphobia! Hello, black olives and mushrooms with double onions."

He looked at the alley, and shrugged. "Here goes, Gage," he said, under his breath.

He walked into the alley, and looked at the brick wall that his assailants had shoved him against. He stepped closer to the wall, and felt the contours of the bricks, remembering how their corners had felt against his face. He looked at the spot where he'd laid helpless and breathless, and remembered what the black sneaker had looked like as it accelerated towards his brow. He took a deep breath, and looked at the spot where he'd then puked his guts out, and endured the secondary humiliation of being scraped off the pavement by Marco's cousin and two young paramedics from 47s. He stared at the literal scene of the crime for a long minute, and then walked away from it, through the alley, and into the deli on the other side.

The sleighbells on the door jangled as he walked in.

"Hey, Johnny! How are you?"

"Robert! I'm great. I'm glad you're working tonight."

"Yeah? Why's that? I mean, other than that you know I'd do a better job on your deli trays than the other guys that work for me?"

"Well, that, and, I wanted to tell you what we're having this party for." After he quickly wrote out his check, Johnny told the story of the sentencing hearing, the sea of blue, and the way the two convicts looked as they were led away.

Robert grinned widely. "Now _that's_ just desserts."

"Speaking of desserts," Johnny said, pointing to the third tray, which looked like cookies and brownies, stacked on top of the two platters of sandwiches and fixings. "That must be someone else's."

"Nope. Truth be told, I heard about the sentencing already. So when Mike called to place the order for the sandwiches, I had a pretty good idea what this party was gonna be all about. So I decided to have a little fun, and throw this in, on the house. Look." Robert popped the top off the tray so Johnny could see better. The dozen cookies on the top edge of the tray had one letter each painted on them with frosting:

J-U-S-T D-E-S-S-E-R-T-S.

Johnny laughed. "That's terrific! Thanks, man. For everything."

"Hey, I owed you one," Robert said, grinning even more widely than before.

Johnny's eyebrows climbed. "Huh? What for?"

"Well, lemme tell you the story of how I already knew about the sentencing. You see, shortly after the thing in the alley, a deputy came by to get a statement from me. Not that I had much to say, you know, but they gotta cover all their bases. Not the young kid who was there first, but a different guy. Real different."

"Oh," Johnny said. "So he kept you informed?"

"Well, I wasn't quite done with my story. The next day, he came back, in his civvies. Which he looked even better in than his uniform. And we did that dance you do, you know, when you think you're on the right track, but you're not totally sure?"

"Uh huh," Johnny said, grinning as he saw where Robert's story was going. "And?"

"And," Robert said, "let's just say we've kept in touch."

"That's good, man. That's great."

Robert was positively beaming. "It sure is."

"Hey," Johnny said. "What time do you close up tonight?"

"Ten, or thereabouts. We tend to slow down once the bars and clubs get hopping."

"Well come by, after, if you want. And bring your deputy. Here," Johnny said, scrawling their address on the back of the receipt and pushing it across the counter to Robert.

"Well, he's working tonight, and probably wouldn't come anyhow, being a mite touchy about being out and about, so to speak. But I'll come by, for sure. Thanks for the invite."

"And thanks for the cookies. See ya later, huh?"

"You bet."

Johnny walked out, and whistled his way down the alley, carrying the three trays. He didn't think at all about what he'd thought about on the way in.

~!~!~!~

Mike started preparing the house for the deluge of guests. He snorted at his mental word choice: a deluge gun would never be used on a structure that was believed to still have living occupants, and not often on one you were trying to salvage intact. _Onslaught_? No, that was too violent. _Arrival_. There. Nice and neutral.

He pushed all the living room furniture against the walls. He moved the dining room table to the corner of the eating area, where it would hold food, and put all the chairs around the edges of the room. He pulled four folding chairs out of the closet, and then four more out of the garage, and set them up all over the house. The guest-room bed was already made up, but he took a spare pillow, pillowcase, set of sheets, and blanket from the closet in the spare room and put them in his and Johnny's bedroom, so they'd be ready in case someone needed to sleep on the couch. Which seemed likely.

The first time he and Johnny threw an evening party together, Mike immediately understood why all the get-togethers at the DeSotos' and the Stanleys' homes were afternoon barbecues. Chet had ended up in the guest room, and Dwyer from C-shift had ended up on the couch. Or, more accurately, had started out on the couch, and ended up on the floor of the bathroom, and then been replaced on the couch.

Mike was never much of a drinker—he chalked that up to having that one big secret that simply couldn't be let out. And once he didn't have to worry about that any more, he found the idea of getting totally plastered just didn't appeal all that much. He did enjoy seeing Johnny get goofy, though. Alcohol hit him hard and fast, but he seemed to metabolize it quickly, so he could be a fun drunk at nine and perfectly sober by eleven if he was so inclined. Mike smirked as he thought about Johnny's tendency to get a bit hands-on with him when intoxicated, but in the company they'd be keeping tonight that wouldn't kill them.

Mike ran the vacuum over the entire house, wondering slightly why he was bothering to do so _before_ the party. But it was what he did, so he did it. He dragged the two coolers out of the garage, and set them on the deck. The ice and the sodas were in the garage fridge, which they only turned on when they were having an event like this.

The doorbell rang. Mike saw the delivery truck in the front, so he swung the door open.

"Howdy. Stoker residence?"

"Yep."

"Got your keg," the man said, unnecessarily, as he was holding a dolly with a keg sitting on it. "Sign here, please."

Mike signed on the clipboard.

"Where do you want it?"

"Uh, on the deck would be good. Come on through the house—there's only these two steps that way."

"Thanks."

The man wheeled the keg through the house, and set it gently on the deck, next to the clean garbage can they had for just that purpose.

"You want me to help you set it in there?"

"Great, thanks—let me just dump some ice in there first."

Mike trotted out to the garage, and pulled two bags of ice out of the freezer. He tore them open and dumped the ice into the bottom of the can.

"Okay, lift on three," the man said. "One, two, three!"

And in the keg went, onto the layer of ice.

"Thanks," Mike said.

"No problem. Now remember, you gotta return it empty, so if there's—"

Mike laughed. "We're having a couple dozen firemen over tonight, so I don't think that'll be an issue."

"Right," the man said, grinning back. "Have a good one." He set the bag containing the tapping equipment down next to the keg, along with Mike's copy of the receipt.

"I don't think there's any doubt of that."

Mike looked at his pre-party checklist, the one that Johnny had laughed at but then checked several times himself. He got a can of frozen orange juice concentrate out to thaw, and checked the last item off the list.

With perfect timing, Johnny's Rover pulled into the driveway. Mike saw that Johnny was loaded down with trays, so he opened the side door so he could bring them straight into the kitchen.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Three trays?"

"Check it out."

Johnny showed Mike the cookie tray, and told Robert's story, which they both had a good chuckle over.

"Say, I noticed a couple deputies I didn't know at the sentencing hearing. Do you suppose …"

"I _do_ suppose," Johnny said, "that one of those guys is Robert's new boyfriend."

"Good." Mike glanced at the clock on the stove. "Half an hour."

"Let's chill, you and me, on the deck, till some of our idiots start to get here."

~!~!~!~

At six sharp, the first car pulled up. Hank and Jane Stanley and their two daughters got out of the Delta 88.

"Cap and family! C'mon in!" Johnny said.

"You're really going to have to stop calling me that, John," Hank said.

"Aw, but I can't. You know. Seven years!" Johnny said. "Right, Mikey?"

"I'm with Johnny, there, Cap. You know, at that warehouse fire, even though you're not even sideways of being my boss anymore, I wasn't going to go against anything you said. Habit."

"Well," Hank said, smiling, "we'll talk about this later. But for now—Mike, John, I don't think there's a good word for what I want to say to you two. 'Congratulations' isn't quite right, but neither is anything else. So I'll just say that we're all mighty glad that in the end, things worked out the way they did. Those two jerks deserved longer than they got, but at least they're put away."

"Thanks," Mike said.

"Yeah, thanks. And without a trial, too," Johnny said. "That's the best part, in my book."

Hank nodded, as did Jane.

"I can see how that would've been quite difficult," Jane said.

"You're not kidding," Johnny said.

"Amy and I are glad, too." Tricia, Cap's older daughter, spoke up. "Mom and Dad wouldn't tell us what was going on, for the longest time, and we were soooooo mad when we finally found out what was going on."

"And how'd you find out?" Mike asked. "My recollection is that if your father doesn't want to tell people something, they just plain don't find out."

Amy, the 14-year-old, blushed.

"Well?" Tricia said. "It's _your_ story, Amy. _You_ tell them."

"Let's go get a drink, dear," Jane said, pulling Hank away from Mike and Johnny and the girls.

Mike's eyes followed the elder Stanleys, wondering what was going on, but thinking he was about to hear something interesting. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to," he said, knowing the feeling that Amy looked like she was having.

"But I will if you don't," Tricia threatened.

Johnny just watched in amusement.

"Chris told me," Amy said, in a tiny voice.

"Chris? As in, DeSoto?" Johnny said. "Now, you don't even go to the same school, so how did you—"

Amy sighed. "All right, all right!" Her voice sounded more like her own. "We were at a football game. Our schools' teams were playing against each other. We sat together. He said something about how awful it all was, what was happening to you guys, and …"

"And the rest is history!" Tricia said. "He's her boyfriend now."

"Tricia!"

"Well? It's true, isn't it?"

"Oh, boy," Johnny said. "I am _so_ glad I'm not your dad or Chris's dad right now."

"Or you or Chris," Mike added. "In fact, I'm glad I'm not a teenager, period."

"Or the parent of a teenager," Johnny said.

"Please, Uncle Mike, Uncle Johnny—don't be mad at Chris. It didn't even occur to him that other kids' parents wouldn't tell them about stuff like that. But Dad is weird—he doesn't like to tell us stuff that might upset us. Never mind that it's plenty upsetting to be treated like infants. But _please_ don't be mad at Chris. Honest—we were just talking about how awful it all was."

"We won't be mad at Chris," Johnny said. "And as for your dad—well, I bet part of it is that he knows we like our privacy, and he was just trying to help us keep it. Cap knows us, that way."

Tricia grinned. "You really _are_ gonna hafta stop calling him that."

"You see, it's like this," Johnny explained. "You wouldn't want to call him 'Hank,' right? Cause he's your dad. To us, he'll always be our captain. So we call him Cap, because nothing else seems right."

"No, really," Amy said. "She's right. You _have_ to stop calling him that."

The girls looked at each other.

"Whaddaya think, Aims," Tricia said. "Suitable revenge for Dad not telling us something important?"

"Yep. Here goes: Dad got promoted."

"What?" Mike said, at the same time as Johnny.

"Well all right!" Johnny said. "What battalion, do you know?"

"Yours," Tricia stated. "On your shift. Dad's your new boss."

"Starting Wednesday," Amy said. "Monday's his last shift at 51s."

"Holy …" Johnny's eyes went wide. "Mike—they really did it! They got rid of Livingston! Girls, you just made my day."

"Glad to help," Tricia said. "Oh look, Aims—here comes your _boyfriend_!"

Tricia snickered while Amy tried to look casual as the DeSotos arrived. All four of the children—if they could still be called that—took off for the yard, as the parents convened in the living room.

"Well, Cap, it sounds like you and Roy have a little situation on your hands, huh?" Johnny jibed.

Roy rolled his eyes. "Don't get me started."

"Or me," Hank said darkly.

The adults stood there, awkwardness intruding for the first time in as long as they'd all known each other.

"Hank, why don't you tell them your news?" Jane suggested, loosening one taut string but tightening another. The room thrummed with different varieties of tension.

"Yeah, _Cap_, tell us your news," Johnny said, grinning.

Hank squinted at Johnny, and crossed his arms. "Someone told you already," he said.

"Told you what?" Roy said.

"Uh huh—the girls, just now," Mike said.

"Now that's just dandy," Hank grumped. "Why would they go and do that?"

"Do _what_?" Roy said. Joanne patted him on the arm.

"Revenge, they said, for _not_ telling _them_ something important." Johnny's eyes gleamed as his crooked grin showed he wasn't mad.

"But _I _wanted to tell you," Hank said petulantly.

"You could tell _me_," Roy said, his voice tinged with desperation.

"Tell us all," Mike said. "We'd all like to hear it from you. Even if we've heard it from the girls already."

"All right, then," Hank said. "I got promoted. Monday's my last shift at good old Station 51. Thursday, I start as Battalion Chief. My assignment's a little farther north than I was hoping for, but I'm not complaining."

"Me neither," said Johnny. "Believe me, I am _not_ complaining. Chief, you can be my boss any time."

"You're gonna be Johnny's battalion chief?" Roy said. "What were the chances of that?"

Johnny and Mike shot each other a glance. They wondered whether Hank was being put in his new assignment for a particular reason.

"Well, let's just say, there's a situation up in that battalion that needs a different eye, and they thought I might have the right point of view. I've been on the list for a while, now, and I don't think it's a coincidence that this position became available when I reached the top of the list," Hank said.

"Let's hear it for the brass," Johnny said. "Uh, I mean—you know what I mean. Congrats, and boy, am I glad you're taking over from Livingston."

"I'll take it," Hank said, laughing.

"Me too," Mike said. "The phrase 'mixed messages' might be a little mild for what Johnny and I got from the upper echelons recently, but this … is a vote of confidence."

Roy didn't totally understand what was going on, but he was sure he'd have it explained to him in due course. "Well, whatever their reasons for where they assigned you, it's high time your promotion came through. Congratulations, Chief."

"I'll second that," Mike said. "Uh—does Marco know yet?"

"He knows I'm being promoted and reassigned, but when I told my crew, I didn't know where I was going yet. And Marco asked if he could tell Chet, so I'm sure Kelly knows by now."

"Speak of the devil," Mike said, pointing out the window.

Marco's car had arrived, and was disgorging its passengers. Mike went to open the door for the entourage.

"Hey, you all! Come on in." He held the door as Marco, his fiancée Lila, his cousin Deputy Ben Houlihan, Chet, and Chet's girlfriend Lisa filed in. "How'd you all fit in that little car? It's like one of those acts with the clowns."

"Well, some of us are pretty friendly with each other," Chet said, his arm around Lisa.

"Why Chet, I didn't know you cared," Ben said, putting his arm around Chet from the other side. His belt was weighed down by a large radio. Chet punched him in the shoulder.

"What's with the equipment?" Mike asked.

"Oh—sorry about this. I'm on standby tonight," Houlihan said. "I'll keep it turned way down."

"No problem," Mike said. "Come on in. Food's in the dining room. Keg's on the deck."

The new group poured into the dining room.

"Hey, look! We're all here!" Marco said. "Our whole crew, from back in the day."

Hank nodded appreciatively. "So we are."

"And this time," Johnny said, "no shiners. So we definitely oughta get a group photo."

"At some point," Mike said. "But for now, everyone should—" Mike interrupted himself, and squinted at Chet. Kelly was standing there with a gigantic grin separating his mustache from the lower part of his face.

"Spill it, Kelly," Johnny said. "And I bet I know what it is."

"Yep," Lisa said. She put her left hand out for inspection. Lisa's ring finger sported a traditional gold band with a single diamond.

"Right on, guys!" Johnny said. "Congratulations, Chet! And Lisa: well, I can hardly congratulate you—ow! But I can at least say good luck." He ducked a second blow from Chet, instead pulling him into a bear hug.

Congratulations were echoed all around.

"This calls for a major toast. Or _two_ major toasts—unless anyone else has some good news they haven't mentioned yet?" Mike asked.

There were no takers, so everyone trooped out to the deck, and toasts were delivered.

Soon enough, people started pouring into the house and yard. Men formerly from station 51, but who had moved on, appeared. Everyone else from the current A- and C- shifts at station 93 appeared, except Len, who'd told Johnny and Mike he would be late. A few people Mike was friendly with at HQ trickled in, along with various people that Johnny or Mike or both were friends with from other venues.

Just after seven, the bell rang, and Mike went to open the door.

"Uh, hi." Wes Harris stood there, by himself.

"Hi, Wes," Mike said. "Come on in."

"I, uh, wasn't sure if you really meant I should come."

"Of course I did," Mike said. "I did mean it."

"And, uh, you're sure it's okay with Johnny?"

"Yeah, Wes. It's really okay. I'm glad you came. Come in," he repeated, "and let me introduce you around." Mike peered behind Wes. "Was your wife not able to make it?"

"No, uh … no. She's … she couldn't come."

Wes was starting to look even more nervous, so Mike dropped that line of inquiry. "That's too bad," he said. "Now seriously, come in, and you better get some food before it all disappears."

Wes finally stepped inside, just as Johnny came to the door to greet the new arrival.

"Johnny, you remember Wes Harris, who I work with, right?"

Johnny nodded. He was glad when Mike said he wanted to invite Wes, because they seemed to have worked things out, but surprised the guy came.

"Harris," Johnny said, shaking Wes's hand. "Glad you could make it. Better grab some chow before it's too late. I'll get you a beer. Be right back."

Mike steered Wes towards the old A-shift group.

"Hey, Cap, uh, I mean Chief, or … whatever, and Marco—you remember Wes Harris, right, from that warehouse fire?"

"Of course," Marco said. "I'll tell you, I was impressed that anyone who wasn't used to being a fireman would go anywhere near that place."

"Well, I don't, usually, but it worked out okay, thanks to the people there who knew what they were doing." Wes took the beer Johnny handed him. "Thanks. Cheers."

"Mike's article in the NFPA journal was pretty great, huh?" Hank said.

Mike slipped away, sure that his somewhat fragile colleague was in good hands. He mentally smacked himself for thinking of Wes as fragile, but then reconsidered. In an environment where he wasn't sure he was welcome, when he'd made mistakes—bad mistakes—that he didn't know how many people knew about, Wes _was_ fragile. Anyone would be.

Mike set his nearly empty cup down on the counter, and puttered around the kitchen, washing a few glasses, putting things away. When he was at the sink, hands suddenly appeared in the back pockets of his jeans. He smiled, realizing his prediction of Johnny's behavior after a few drinks had come true.

"We can clean up later, Mikey. Come on."

"Okay, just let me—"

The hands in his pockets moved elsewhere, as Johnny wrapped his arms around Mike from behind.

_Yup, hands-on, in front of _everyone_._

"Nope," Johnny said, right into Mike's ear. "Time to play with our friends."

"All right. But geez, babe; hands."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Johnny let go, but leaned in again. "Later," he whispered.

"Of course, later, you drunken idiot," Mike said fondly.

The bell rang again.

"Now that can only be one person," Mike said.

"I'm kinda hopin' it'll be two people," Johnny said. "Let's go see." He lurched as he turned to go to the door. "Whoa." Johnny giggled.

Mike grabbed Johnny to help keep him upright. "Steady there, Captain Gage. You gonna make it to the door?"

"Prob'ly." Johnny made it to the door. "See?"

"Uh, open it, why don'tcha?"

Johnny obediently opened the door, and beamed as he saw who was standing on the doorstep.

"Hi, Len! Hi, Dix! I was hoping it'd be both of you, together, at the same time. C'mon in!" He staggered slightly as he stepped backwards.

"A couple of sheets to the wind, are we, John?" Len said.

"Hits him hard, but wears off fast," Mike said. "Don't worry, I'm keeping my eye on him."

"Yeah, that's for sure," Johnny said. "He won't let me get away with _nothin_'. Just like you, Dix. I mean, not like you're not letting me get away with a little groping the in kitchen—aw geez, that's not what I mean. Forget I said that. I mean, when I used to show up at Rampart, with just a little bump or bruise or somethin', you'd be all—"

"That's because," Dixie said patiently, "with you, a 'little bump' was probably a concussion, 'a bruise or something' could easily be a sprain or a fracture, 'a bit of a tickle' was likely to be pneumonia—shall I go on?"

Johnny scowled. "I just don't think it's fair I can't grope my own boyfriend in our own kitchen, is all."

Len burst out laughing. "Don't let us get in your way," he said. "Come, my fair lady, and let me get you some of that poison they're calling beer."

"Go eat some cookies," Mike suggested to Johnny. "Keep your blood sugar up."

"Oh. Okay." Johnny proceeded to the food table, where Roy and his daughter were inspecting the dessert tray. The frosted cookies were still there.

"Hey, Uncle Johnny," Jenny said.

"Mike says I need to eat some cookies."

Jenny looked over the tray, and found the largest of all the brownies. "Here. This is the biggest one. If Uncle Mike says you need to eat something, you better do what he says."

"Uh, Junior, why don't you sit down?" Roy suggested.

Mike came over carrying his beer, as well as a plastic cup filled with milk. "A little protein won't hurt, either." He handed the milk to Johnny, and took a swig of his beer.

"Thanks, babe."

Mike looked at the J-U-S-T D-E-S-S-E-R-T-S display, and laughed. He started moving the cookies around.

"What's so funny?" Roy asked.

"Sorry, I just looked at those letters and saw something else. Hang on." He moved the letters around some more, and handed Roy an 'S.' "Here, that's extra. Eat it."

Johnny looked at the tray and laughed.

"'Jester studs?'" Jenny said. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means," Johnny said, "that _I_ oughta keep an eye on _him_, just like _he's_ keepin' an eye on _me_."

"Oh," Jenny said dubiously. "Can I have another brownie, Dad?"

"Why don't you split it with your mom," Roy suggested.

"Okay." Jenny found the next largest brownie, and took it with her outside.

"What _is_ that supposed to mean?" Roy asked, after Jenny had left.

"Nothing, I don't think," Mike said.

"Oh," Johnny said, frowning. "I thought it was supposed to mean that you and me are funny, but also studly. Which we are."

"O-kay," Roy said, "I think I'll go outside too."

Johnny looked at Mike. "Did we just scare Roy off?"

"Yup."

"Okay. I'm officially cut off, as of now."

"Yes; yes you are."

Johnny looked at his watch. "Wow, and it's only nine."

"And you're on milk and cookies for the rest of the night, babe."

"Yeah. Okay."

"And I'll be on orange juice and potato chips."

"That's fair," Johnny said.

~!~!~!~

Over an hour later, the hosts had sobered up considerably, and many of their guests had gotten quite tipsy. Mike, Johnny, Chet, Marco and Ben Houlihan were sitting in the living room, along with the Yangs, whose baby April was sound asleep, despite the racket.

"Hey," Chet said, "you know, we oughta get our group picture done before we get too far gone to have it be any good."

Mike nodded. "That's a good point. Johnny, you had your camera all ready to go, right? You could put it on a timer, and—"

A loud, almost metallic thumping sound startled them all. Everyone automatically looked towards the window, which was vibrating slightly.

"Stay put," Ben said, as he flew out the door, yanking his radio off his belt at the same time.

The rest of the A-shift men in the room looked at each other.

"He may be a cop," Marco said, "but he's my baby cousin. C'mon!"

They charged outside. Mike, still not much good at running or chasing, looked at the window from the front lawn. There was a ding in the metal frame of the large pane. His eyes traveled downwards, and he found an object in the flower bed. It was about the size of a brick, but was completely covered in paper. The paper read, on all sides, "FAG LOVERS GO HOME."

"Fuck!" Mike swore. He knew better than to touch the brick, or the paper, but he had to do something. So he kicked the front of the house. "Shit!"

Mike heard shouting from down the street. He unlocked the door of his truck, and pulled his Mag-light from the pocket of the door, and trotted down the street as fast as he could.

"Kling, I got him!" he heard someone shout.

"Copy. I'm a block away." The unfamiliar voice Mike heard was punctuated by a burst of static.

Chet and Johnny, who had initially gone the opposite direction down the block, ran up behind Mike. The three of them stopped short at the sight in front of them.

"What the …" Johnny said.

Ben and Marco had someone pinned to the ground, face down.

"Do you need a hand?" Chet said, breathing hard.

"Johnny, Mike, you guys need to stay back," Ben said. "Chet, you could hold his legs down, just below the knees."

"My pleasure," Chet replied.

A black-and-white sedan, side floodlights glaring, screeched to a halt in front of the scene, before anyone could even ask any questions. A gigantic man stepped out of the driver's side, flashlight in hand. He shined it down on the scene in front of him, his eyes and the light competing for which could produce the harshest glare.

"What've you got, Houlihan?"

"Well," Ben said, not yet looking up, "something hit the front window of the house, and then this punk was running down the street. Call me hasty, but considering the circumstances, and oh yeah, him still running when I shouted 'stop, police,' I took him down."

"There's a paper-covered brick in the flower bed. It says 'fag lovers go home.'" Mike said with a calmness that he was sure did not really belong to him.

Len and Hank came running down the street.

"What the hell is going on?" Len said.

"Len, Cap—I think it's under control," Johnny said. "See if you can get people to stay in the house."

"Got it," Hank said. He and Len returned to the house.

Kling and Houlihan cuffed the pinned man and hauled him to his feet.

"Whoever's got that light, shine it on him," the deputy said. He looked and sounded royally pissed off, which didn't put anyone at ease.

Mike complied, shining the light on the man's face.

"Anyone recognize him?" Kling asked, as Houlihan mirandized their suspect.

Johnny sighed. "Yeah. I do. I don't remember his name, but he works out of Station 47. Uh, L.A. County Fire Department Station 47. About a mile from here. I subbed there a couple times as a medic, a few months ago. I'm a fireman, too, just like him. I'm—"

"I know who you are," the deputy said.

Johnny took a step back, away from the deputy, and towards Mike.

Mike turned the light off. Deputy Kling was silent for a few seconds. He looked ominous, as he was backlit by the floodlight on his car, and his face was in shadows.

"Haven't your kind figured out yet that these guys have more friends than you do?" the deputy said into the darkness.

Everyone froze.

"Yeah," the suspect jeered, speaking for the first time. "I recommend you figure that out, fags."

The silence was positively deafening.

"I meant _you_," Deputy Kling said, spinning the suspect towards the car as he opened the back door. "Get in the car."

The suspect was silent again as he climbed in the back seat of the car. Kling slammed the door shut. Nobody dared move as he popped the trunk, got out a plastic bag, marched up to the front of the house, collected his evidence, and put the sealed bag back in the trunk.

"Ben, you get statements. I'll see you at the station," Kling said. He turned to face the rest of the group, and once he stepped out of the glare of the floodlights, Johnny and Mike could see he was looking right at them.

"I didn't think eighteen months was enough," Kling said softly, in an entirely different voice from the one he'd used so far. He turned quickly, without looking at anyone, and drove off, leaving five men standing there silently.

"Ben, what the hell was that?" Marco said finally.

Ben sighed. "We got a tip, all right?"

"A tip?" Chet said.

"A tip, that maybe something like this was going to happen tonight. I can't and won't say where the tip came from, but we had it, and I was going to be here anyhow, so …" Ben threw his hands in the air. "Sorry."

"What do you mean, 'sorry?'" Johnny said. "We're damned glad you were here, Ben, so don't be sorry."

"Sorry I couldn't tell you, is what I meant," Ben said.

"Well, we wouldn't have wanted to know, anyhow," Mike said.

"There goes the rest of the party," Johnny said sourly.

"Not necessarily," Ben said. "Not unless you want people to go. Our information was pretty clear that it was just a one-man-band with a half-baked plan. Which is about what we saw just now."

"Plus, if you send everyone home, he wins," Marco said. "And he can't win."

"I hope the kids weren't scared," Ben said.

Everyone else laughed.

"Have you actually _met_ these kids?" Chet said. "They're all teenagers, or almost, and they're all firemen's kids. I guarantee you, they're _not_ scared."

"All right, all right!" Ben said. "But I do have to get statements. Just from the four of you, unless anyone else inside saw anything."

Johnny shook his head. "We didn't even see anything. I heard the thunk, but that was it."

Everyone else murmured in agreement.

"Yeah, but everyone standing here heard what the guy said, and saw that there was no police brutality. And Mike, you were the first to see the evidence. So I do need statements, but they'll be fast. I promise," Houlihan said.

"All right. Let's go back in, and we'll do our statements with you one by one, maybe in the guest room?" Mike suggested.

"That's fine. And please don't talk to each other or anyone else about this until you've made your statement."

Everyone filed back into the house. They were greeted by the expected expressions of concern, and questions about what happened.

"Everything's under control," Mike said. "Just a little incident out on the street. The cops took the guy away. We'll be with you in a minute; we just have to talk to Deputy Houlihan here, first."

Houlihan pulled a notebook out of his back pocket. "Why don't you go first, Mike?"

"Okay."

One by one, the men gave their brief statements to Houlihan. Nobody took more than three minutes, and soon they were all back at the party. Johnny, the last to give his statement, saw Mike with his head together with Hank and Len, explaining what had happened. Most of the other people present at the party seemed to have assumed, reasonably, that the event had nothing to do with the party, and carried on with their eating, drinking, and merriment.

Johnny saw Marco talking to Ben, and handing him the car keys. Johnny caught Ben at the door.

"Thanks again, man. This could've turned into another big deal."

"But it didn't. It won't," Ben said. "I've gotta go meet up with Kling, but I'll be back in an hour or so."

"All right. And can I assume that when you get back, you won't be on 'stand-by' anymore?"

Ben grinned. "That's a fair assumption."

"We'll make sure to save you a beer or three."

"Thanks."

Johnny closed the door, and turned to find Mike standing near the foyer.

"Let's chat for a minute," Mike said.

"Yeah."

They ducked into their bedroom, and closed the door.

Johnny immediately leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes, sighing heavily.

"Shit, Mikey. I just don't think I could take this again."

Mike closed the distance between them, and pulled Johnny off the wall, and towards him, folding him in his arms. "We won't have to, okay? Ben told me they were nearly sure it was just this one guy, and—"

"_Fuck_ the one guy! There's always gonna be one _more_ guy, Mikey! And one more after _that_!" Johnny shouted.

Mike took a step backwards.

"Sorry," Johnny said, rubbing his head. "Sorry. I yelled right in your face."

"You kind of did," Mike said.

"Sorry."

"I know you didn't mean it."

"I sure as hell didn't mean to take it out on you," Johnny said. "But it's true. There's always gonna be someone who doesn't like us."

Mike sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded. "I think," Mike said, "that if this guy gets booked, and convicted even of a misdemeanor, that there aren't gonna be any more county firemen who take exception to us the way he did."

"IF the brass does like they said, and actually fires anyone who does this shit off duty."

"You don't think you can take them at their word?" Mike said.

Johnny sighed, for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, and sat down next to Mike. "Yeah. I guess I do think we can."

"So do I," Mike said. "And personally, I think Deputy Kling said what he said about having more friends, the way he said it, exactly to make that asshole say something stupid, just like he did. I think he knew exactly what he was doing, with his ambiguous remark."

Johnny digested that statement. "I guess you're probably right."

"And you're right, too—there's always gonna be someone who doesn't like us. But if we live our lives worrying about that, well, then …"

"Yeah. Then they win. I get it," Johnny said. "Okay. I get it." He rubbed his forehead again.

Mike took Johnny's face between his palms, and kissed him. "And I've got you, and you've got me, and even though I'm pretty sure I'm ninety percent sober, I'm getting real sappy right now."

Johnny covered one of Mike's hands with his own, and kissed him right back.

"Remember, we've got a date later," he said.

Mike gave Johnny one more kiss, and then they let each other go. "Yeah. Let's go back to our party."

"'kay."

~!~!~!~

An hour later, after Ben returned, sans radio, and was immediately handed a beer, most people had forgotten that there had been any commotion. Roy and Joanne came up to Johnny, who was busy admiring the latest arrangement of lettered cookies.

"TURD JETS."

"Hey, Johnny, we're thinking we'd better go soon. The kids are starting to get cranky," Roy said.

Joanne laughed. "You're too kind, Roy, but it's me, and you know it. I'm starting to fade—the kids are going strong. But you guys still need to take your group picture, right?"

Johnny snapped his fingers. "That's right! I've got the camera all set up, on a tripod and everything, so all we need to do is get everyone together, and get Chet and Marco to hold still long enough for someone to push the shutter button a few times. I'll be right back. Roy, can you get all the guys together?"

"Yeah, if they're sober enough to stand up, that is. Chet wasn't looking so hot."

Roy managed to herd the rest of the crew together, and various women who came with the men in the group arranged hair, straightened shirts, and made sure nobody wandered off. Len Sterling volunteered to work the camera.

"Say cheese!" he made the mistake of saying, for the first shot.

"Now all right, you baboons, just hold still and don't say anything," he said. He was sure, as soon as he pushed the shutter button, the second shot would be a disaster as well.

"Okay, fellas, now there are only a few shots left on this roll." Len tried clicking the button when nobody was expecting it, but he wasn't sure how well that worked either.

"All right, twits!" Hank said, from the back of the group. "Let's make this happen. Act like adults, just for a minute, so we can get one good shot."

The group settled down, and Len triggered the shutter release while he could. He took two more shots in quick succession, and then gave up. "I think that's the end of the roll," he said.

"Well, maybe one of them will turn out," Johnny said. "Thanks." He set the camera and tripod in a corner of the dining room, where it wouldn't get knocked over.

~!~!~!~

Two hours later, the party had wound down. Emerson, the youngest man on Johnny's crew, had been put in the guest room at some point, with a bucket on the floor, and a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the table next to the bed. He'd wake up mortified, but safe and sound. Somehow, nobody had ended up on the couch. Johnny and Mike were picking up a few things before turning in.

"Well, well; look what's being served," Mike said.

Johnny peered over Mike's shoulder at the plate he was holding.

"JUST S."

"Who did that one?" Johnny asked.

"I don't know," Mike said. "But I do know that it's waaaaaay past our bedtime."

"Okay. You get a head start—I'm just gonna put the camera away, and then I'll join you."

"Good. Because I think it's the 'later' we've been talking about."

"It sure is."

~!~!~!~

At the end of the next week, Mike arrived home to find Johnny waiting for him with an envelope.

"Pictures came back," Johnny said. "I didn't look yet. I was waiting for you."

"Well," Mike said, leaving his shoes in the foyer. "Let's take a look."

Johnny got out the pictures, which were arranged in chronological order, starting with a bunch of shots he'd taken around Station 93. He peeled those off the stack and set them aside for later. The various takes of the group shot came last. He laid them out on the coffee table. In the first, Chet's eyes were looking way off to the side, and Marco's hand was in front of Cap's face. In the second, someone was holding two fingers up behind Roy's head. The third was similarly awful. The fourth, though, was perfect.

"That's the one," Mike said.

"Yeah. That's our gang." Johnny said.

Chet, Marco, and Roy were in the front row, and everyone looked happy, and, both falsely and miraculously, sober. In the back row, Hank Stanley ducked down slightly, as was his habit in photos. Mike was in the middle, and Johnny's arm was around him, his hand resting on Mike's left shoulder. The gold band Mike had put on his finger, almost a year and half before, was clearly visible.

They skipped over the last two group photos, which were equally as dismal as the first ones.

But there was one more picture at the bottom of the pile. It was two cookies on a plate.

"US."

**The End.**

A/N: If you're still here, 270,000 words later, thanks for sticking with this saga! Even more thanks to those who left me comments. If you've been following the story, and haven't left me a comment, please do! You can always PM me if you prefer not to leave a public review.

I give a huge thanks to readers who weren't so sure about this story's topic, but read it anyhow.

Special thanks to Nantucketbreezes and Ariane Rivendell for support and reality checks, Bamboozlepig for the same plus help with police and legal stuff, Enfleurage for the world's best reviews, and Robertwnielsen for nearly always being first.

Most of this story appeared first in a different form at the Wonderful World of Make-Believe site (google WWOMB and you'll get there). It's another excellent fanfic archive, well worth checking out. I use the same pen name over there. There are many stories by many authors over there, in all sorts of fandoms. Be warned they do accept adult content at that site, so heed the ratings system.

Keep reading, and keep writing!


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